The Twilight Streets

After a few moments, it was all over. The whole site was nothing more than rubble and dust.

Bilis knelt down to the ground, quite effortlessly for a man of his apparent age. He gently pushed his hand into the cracked roadway and retrieved some grey ashes.

He sniffed them, then smiled. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a wooden box, identical to the one back at the Hub, currently filling up with the imprisoned Dark. He opened the box and deposited the grey ash inside it.

Snapping the box shut, Bilis Manger smiled and stood up again. He straightened his cravat and brushed the glass and detritus from his jacket.

‘Goodbye Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘Until the next battle, of course.’

And he vanished into space or time or wherever it was he came from.

The diary flopped to the broken-up ground, just an old empty book.

A few flames licked up from the torn roadway, where electrical cables had been damaged. Thirty seconds later, Tretarri and the diary had combined into one massive funeral pyre to the past.

At the Hub, Toshiko was monitoring the Rift, noting the new energy racing through it, energy she’d never seen before. And hoped she never would again.

Energy that, she knew all too well, could destroy the future.

She glanced up at Bilis’s wooden box in the base of the Rift Manipulator embedded in the water tower. The box seemed to be growing darker by the second.

And then the last blink of Dark energy was gone from the Rift. She closed the connection, ignoring the shower of sparks as her computer fried.

‘Now!’ she barked at Owen.

‘Always me has to do the dangerous stuff,’ he muttered as he ran across the Hub to the tower.

‘We make a good team,’ Toshiko murmured, more to herself than to Owen.

If he heard, he said nothing. He just slammed the lid down, turned the key and yanked the box out. ‘What now?’

‘Jack?’

Jack’s voice came out of the ether. ‘Now we get some sleep.’

‘What about this box?’ asked Owen, but there was no reply.

‘Perhaps you should sit on it till they get back here?’ laughed Toshiko.

Owen gave her a look that suggested that he didn’t find the idea that funny.

Gwen knelt in front of the rubble of Tretarri and let some of it sift through her hands. She spotted a half- melted collection bucket a few paces away.

‘I remember that,’ she said. ‘But the rest of it’s fading. I can’t remember the future scenario much at all now.’

Ianto opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it. ‘No,’ he said, surprised. ‘Me neither.’

‘Jack?’

Their leader just gave his whitest smile. ‘I don’t dream, remember?’ he said.

‘I wonder where Bilis Manger is now,’ Ianto looked around.

‘Who cares,’ Jack said. ‘We could still write what we know about him and his motives on the back of a postage stamp. Not sure I like that.’

‘Well, some poor bastard at City Hall is going to have fun explaining this,’ said a voice behind them.

Jack didn’t turn around, just smiled. ‘Idris Hopper. Saviour of the City of Cardiff.’

‘And it won’t be me.’

Gwen smiled at him. ‘Oh go on, they might make you Mayor!’

Idris shook his head. ‘Tell me, Gwen. Jack told me that his amnesia pills didn’t work on you. Is it true?’

Gwen was slightly stumped at this. ‘Um, well, not exactly. I mean, they would have I think, but something in my head snapped and I broke through them.’

‘One in 800,000, Idris.’ Jack took a bottle of pills out of his pocket. ‘I just happen to be standing here with the only two I know of. Why?’

‘Give me one Jack. Please. A really, really strong dosage. I want to wake up tomorrow not remembering any of this. Or you lot. No disrespect, Gwen, Ianto, but me and Torchwood. Don’t really want to know.’

‘Might not work,’ Gwen said. ‘No matter what strength.’

Idris shrugged. ‘Another risk worth taking. Let’s face it, if I’m knocking on your door in twenty-four hours, asking for a slice of pizza and a look at a Weevil, then you need to go back to your chemistry labs, Jack.’

Jack tossed him the bottle. ‘Strength five is safe. For humans. Take two, Idris. And good luck.’

Idris took two pills out and threw the bottle back.

He doffed his head at Torchwood, turned and walked away, the pills still in his hand.

‘Will he?’ Ianto asked.

‘Dunno, to be honest.’ Jack smiled a little sadly. ‘I hope not.’

‘Because he’s a useful contact?’ Gwen brushed dust off her hands.

‘No,’ said Jack. ‘I just quite enjoyed his friendship.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s get back home. We’ve a box to bury in concrete.’

‘You mean, I have a box to bury in concrete,’ Ianto moaned.

‘Well, I’m sure we’ll help you bury it,’ said Gwen.

‘But mixing concrete?’ asked Jack. ‘Not these hands.’

‘Nor mine,’ added Gwen, linking her arm through both Jack and Ianto’s as they began to walk towards Grangetown and then on to Cardiff Bay. ‘And I’m sure Owen and Tosh will find better things to do…’

Three weeks later, Idris Hopper was at Bristol Airport, holdall on his shoulder. He’d checked his cases in, got his boarding pass and was about to board the 14.25 to Shoenfeld.

He looked back over his shoulder, suddenly. Didn’t know why, but he felt like someone was watching him.

There was no one he knew. A couple of kids and a woman, waving goodbye to grandparents. A middle-aged lady with a briefcase passing it to a flustered businessman. A couple of other people were standing there, presumably making sure their friends or relatives got on the plane.

There was also a man, and something in Idris wondered if he’d seen him before. Dark hair, square jaw, blue eyes. Wearing a long military-style coat. Oh. He looked a bit like Tom Cruise, that must be what it was.

Idris walked onto the plane.

‘Mr Hopper, Guten Tag. Seat 23C, window, straight down the aisle. Danke.’

‘Danke,’ he replied, and made his way to his seat.

Small plane, he thought. Two seats, aisle, two middle seats, other aisle, two seats, window. Nice onboard entertainment system, but it was a short flight, not much point in a movie. Might get an episode of Frasier or The Simpsons in though.

He chucked his bag in the overhead locker and settled down, watching the other passengers come aboard, hoping, as travellers always do, that no one would sit beside him.

Not that Idris minded people. But it was that natural instinct – the same on buses and trains – to hope that no one sits close by you.

Oh, bad luck.

‘Ah, my seat. Good afternoon,’ said his fellow traveller.

He carried nothing other than a newspaper. He sat down and smiled at Idris.

Old man, very neat and precise. Old-school English, even the cravat was there. But his eyes seemed to burn with intellect and life.

Then Idris noticed he was carrying something under the paper.

It was a small wooden box.

Second thing in fifteen minutes that had seemed somehow familiar to Idris. But a box was just a box.

The old man saw where Idris was looking.

‘Sorry,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘I wanted to carry him with me.’

Oh. Oh, right.