something that would ramp it up and open it permanently without destroying Earth.
It was a tall order, but he and Toshiko were so close to finding it.
So close to each other.
So close to marriage.To a life.To…
Oh God – that was it! Last time the Rift had opened, Abaddon had come through. Jack destroyed the Beast, time reversed as the Rift was sealed for good. No one died except Jack. And then he came back to life. It was Jack, something to do with him, with his unique energies.
And wasn’t Jack always saying he’d happily sacrifice his immortality to be normal again?
What if they bled some of his life energies into the Rift – not a dangerous amount, but enough to see if it worked, however briefly. Then they could try and replicate those energies, because they’d have a sample of Jack’s.
And Owen wondered what it would need to get some of his life energy.
And he suddenly thought of the pistol in the Autopsy Room.
No. No, that wasn’t going to happen.
But an accident?
After all, accidents happened when you worked at Torchwood – he was the proof of that.
Was this him though? Or was Jack right? Were the light creatures in the Rift Energy affecting him? He was a doctor, committed to bringing life, not death.
And Tosh? What would she say?
He looked around the Hub and wondered where he was going next. He remembered something his mother had once said to him about power and corruption. And smiled.
This could be a whole new Torchwood.
Idris Hopper stood outside the tourist information entrance to Torchwood and frowned.
Who on Earth had put a huge metal strut across it and padlocked it up? Jack? Closing Torchwood? Unlikely. Even at this time of night. But then, it was Jack. Anything was actually possible.
He shifted the record bag slung over his shoulder. The strap was beginning to dig into his neck a bit.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Idris turned.
Behind him was a short old man, dressed immaculately, a huge welcoming smile on his face. ‘Are you looking for Mr Harkness?’
Idris thought about that – how likely was it that anyone around here knew Jack? Knew that this was the place to find him?
‘I’m just trying to get in, but it seems to be locked up.’
The old man shrugged. ‘Strange, isn’t it? Torchwood is so rarely closed for business, but I saw Mr Harkness about half an hour ago, heading into the City Centre. I doubt he’ll be long.’ He pointed at the padlocked bar. ‘Perhaps this is a new security measure. That Ianto Jones fellow can be such a stickler for detail.’
Idris shrugged. ‘Yeah, guess so. Sorry, did you say “Torchwood”? What’s that then? Is that the new name for the Tourist Board?’ Idris pointed at the stylised red dragon symbol on the small sign that read
The older Englishman just smiled. ‘So few people around here seem proud of their rich heritage, Mr…?’
‘Oh sorry.’ Idris offered his hand. ‘Hopper. Idris Hopper. I work for the Council. So, probably should know Welsh, but you’d be surprised how easy it is to get by with the odd
The old man nodded, understandingly. ‘I have never spoken a word of Welsh either.’
Suddenly, Mermaid Quay was plunged into darkness, and there were surprised cries and yells from the people in the bars and restaurants.
Idris looked around, where had the old man gone?
Out of Idris’s eyeline, something glowed a sort of purple in the sky – perhaps the columns of light that decorated the Oval Basin by the water tower were run independently.
Then life returned to the Bayside, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
As the bulb-lights around the jetties and decking spluttered back into life, Idris realised the old man was suddenly back again, uncomfortably close to his face.
Idris took a step back and was now pressed against the locked door.
‘In fact,’ the old man said as if nothing had happened, ‘I shall be seeing Mr Harkness tomorrow. We have an… appointment. May I give him a message?’
Idris thought for a second and then smiled. ‘God, you are a lifesaver.’ He unslung his record bag and pulled out a sheaf of handwritten notes and a huge envelope. He then whipped out a pen and a set of Post-Its notes and scribbled a message down for Jack, attached them to the papers and shoved the pages into the envelope. He sealed the envelope, wrote Jack’s name on the front, added ‘By Hand Via Kindly Old Chum’ in the corner and handed it to the man.
The old man smiled at the envelope. ‘“Kindly Old Chum” is a phrase I shall treasure, Mr Hopper.’
Idris offered his hand, but the man didn’t take it. Instead he just bowed slightly.
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Hopper. And good luck in Berlin.’
By the time Idris had registered that last comment, the man had vanished.
EIGHTEEN
It was a lovely morning. Simply delightful. No one in the world could have complained. The sun was out, the sky was blue with white fluffy clouds, and there was a tiny breeze in the air, but not enough to stop the general dress being T-shirts or halter tops.
Mums with kids in pushchairs and buggies, dads with older kids on their shoulders, teenagers and groups of pensioners all jostled on the roads of Tretarri, excited by this bizarre relaunch of a series of streets. Many arrived carrying the flyers that had been handed out around the city over the past twenty-four hours, detailing the clowns, magicians and street entertainers that would be present. Each flyer had a coupon that entitled the bearer to a can of drink each for their family (no more than four) at a discount rate. Light Lite it was called, guaranteed good for the kids.
The grand opening of the area had been at midday that morning. Jack had been there since 10 o’clock. Waiting. Watching. Wondering who, or what, would make a move.
The Wurlitzer had been the first thing to start up, sending out that irritating hurdy-gurdy music. Then the street performers had arrived, although Jack hadn’t noticed where they’d come from. The houses? No doors were open.
Light Lite. He had picked up a discarded can earlier. The lights in the Rift last night. Greg talking about the Light and Dark. It all had to be connected somehow, he was sure of that, and all roads led to Tretarri.
The other thing that had occurred to him atop Stadium House the night before was that Tretarri might not be the casual annoyance he’d thought. Jack had been around for… well, centuries was not really an exaggeration. At around 150 years old, he’d seen a lot, remembered a lot (hell, he’d probably done a lot and what he hadn’t done wasn’t worth doing), and he was cross with himself for not recognising a trap when he saw one.
This was an elaborate ruse – had been ever since he’d first seen Tretarri back in 1902. Each time he’d come, the nausea had got stronger, a fact that hadn’t really seemed important until now, but it was all leading somewhere, leading here. To now. Because Jack was an expert and could recognise a good party when he saw one. And this was the granddaddy of them all. All it needed was a host.
Where was Bilis Manger?
And where were his team? His friends?
What the hell was going to happen in the future?
Mind you, futures were fluid things. Time always was – what you knew the future to be one day could be completely revoked when you next visited it. Like a river, ebbing back and forth, tiny ripples. The general shape of
