an apology. I got the impression this rather dear man was concerned for their wellbeing.
Having witnessed the battle of the Beasts, I could only agree.
I asked Bilis what he would do now – the Beast he worked for was seemingly defeated.
He told me, and I remember his words so clearly: ‘I walk through the eternity of past, present and possible futures, until such time as my Lord Abaddon is reborn. Until then, you, Gideon ap Tarri, must remember two things. Firstly, the word “Torchwood”, for it will destroy the future. And secondly, that I, Bilis Manger, shall seek the ultimate revenge for the future. Because it must not come to pass – and yet without my Lord Abaddon, it will.’
I never saw him again.
Over the next week, I re-housed my loyal workers in newer accommodations in the Windsor and Bute Esplanades.
Only once more did I try to visit Tretarri but something there kept me out. Not physically, but I was afeared when I entered it, my heart palpitated, and my throat was parched in a second. I could not rationalise this, but I know and respect fear and swore never to return.
As bidden by Bilis Manger, who disappeared from my life that day and has never returned, I have written this down four years hence.
I have made it a stipulation of my Last Will and Testament that this diary shall be buried with me. I am placing it within a wooden box in my attic. Today will be the last time I ever see it.
Gideon ap Tarri
12 June 1880
I have recourse to retrieve this diary and, for the sake of Bilis Manger if ever he finds it, make note of the events of this afternoon.
A man approached me, a Scots man I believe. He claimed he represented Her Majesty Queen Victoria. He gave me no name, but he had a military bearing along with the uniform, so I had no reason no doubt his claim.
He asked, nay, demanded the diary.
When I feigned ignorance, he explained he was from the Torchwood Institute in London.
Bilis, my friend, I cannot say for sure if this diary will now be buried with me, for I feel I must flee, if only to draw this Torchwood away from the diary. If we remain in one another’s company, they shall I am sure locate it.
I hope, desperately hope, that my panic is for nought and I shall return to Cardiff shortly.
But today, I am headed away from here. I shall not say where.
This may be my last entry.
God be with you
Gideon Tarry, formerly Gideon Haworth Esq
18 September 1881
SIXTEEN
Rhys Williams glanced at the clock on the wall: 11.46am. He adjusted his tie in the mirror, and brushed a bit of dust off the collar of his Savile Row suit. Neatness mattered.
Alone in the room, he slipped the jacket off and took a sideon look at himself. ‘Thirty-two-inch waist for the first time since you were eighteen, Rhys Alun Williams,’ he said proudly. ‘Not bad for a man getting closer to the wrong side of thirty-five.’
‘Too true, Mister Sexy Pants,’ Gwen said, emerging from the en suite.
Rhys took her, all of her, in his arms, and they kissed. Passionately. Longingly. Slowly, he led her towards the bed.
She broke off, laughing. ‘Calm down, lover,’ she said, patting her extended belly. ‘Not till junior is out and running about.’
‘Running about?’ Rhys put on a mock stressed expression. ‘He won’t be playing for the Torchwood IX Under- 10s for another few years. I have to wait till then?’
They laughed. ‘About another three hours,’ Gwen said, ‘and I’m all yours again.’
Rhys was serious. ‘Gwen, God knows I’ve hated Torchwood and I’ve loved Torchwood, but right now I’m scared of Torchwood.’
‘Oh, not again…’
‘I’m serious. OK, so this alien technology you lot found, yeah, it guarantees safe delivery, yeah, it negates caesareans and breeches or whatever, but…’
‘But it’s still alien tech, and you don’t like it.’
Rhys looked down at his feet. ‘Jack didn’t like it,’ he said quietly.
Gwen just stood there, all passion and love drained in a second. She sat in the chair at the dresser, refusing to look directly at Rhys, instead directing her voice at his reflection. ‘Jack isn’t here any more.’
Rhys wouldn’t catch her eye. ‘He didn’t trust the dependency on alien tech, Gwen, and, for all his faults, I trusted Jack’s integrity, if not his morality. If something goes wrong-’
‘Nothing will go wrong, Rhys, for crying out loud. Owen tested it! Owen, the man you were happy enough to let save my life once before.’
‘I saved you!’
‘Using his alien tech! If it was good enough then-’
Rhys leapt up. ‘That was an emergency, Gwen. That was life and death. That was the most terrifying day of my bloody life, and I had no choice but to trust Owen Bloody Harper. Now, now I have a choice!’
Gwen spun round on him. ‘No! No, Rhys, you don’t. I’m doing this because I’m the one facing hours of labour, I’m the one facing depression and illness and pain. I’m the one facing the possibility that, after nine months carrying this baby, something could go wrong and it dies. Or I die.’
‘Our baby,’ Rhys muttered, not caring whether Gwen heard him or not.
‘So, yeah, I’m happy to use technology that guarantees one hundred per cent a healthy boy and a healthy mum. I’d have thought my darling husband would be happy at that thought.’
Rhys knew he’d lost. ‘I do, love, believe me. I just think that what my mam said about natural birth-’
And Gwen was up and heading out of the bedroom.
‘Brenda Bloody Williams and her pre-natal care. If there’s anything that almost stopped me getting pregnant, it was knowing that at the back of every decision we made your mother would be saying, “Oh, I’m not sure that’s the way to hold a baby,” or “Are you really dressing him in that,” or “Are you sure that’s the right food for a baby,” or “In my day, children were seen and not heard.” Screw you, Rhys and screw your mam too!’
With a loud slam of the door, she was out, clattering down the stairs.
No, not stopping at the next level, going all the way down to the front door.
SLAM.
Gone.
Rhys sighed to himself, checked his tie again, slipped the jacket on and followed her downstairs, through the front door and out to the car.
She was sitting in the passenger seat. He slid into the driving seat.
‘Alien tech, eh?’ he said. ‘Can save all those pains, can’t do a bloody thing about your hormones, can it?’
Gwen stared at him. ‘Shut up.’
‘I mean, cos that’d be really useful wouldn’t it. “Hi, I’m Owen Harper, I can give something really useful to the world. Hormonal balance.” Now that would be an improvement.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I mean, look at the time. In thirty minutes, we’ll have a baby boy, happy, healthy and perfect in an Orwell- would-have-hatedit way. But after all that, I bet you’ll still be grumpy, unpredictable, eating raw pickles by the cartload and phoning me at the office and accusing me of shagging Ruth.’
‘Shut up.’ A beat. ‘Which one’s Ruth?’