offered nothing extraordinary, no explanations as to why he couldn’t get past whatever this invisible barrier was.
‘Damn.’
He shoved the PDA back into his voluminous coat pocket, took a deep breath, closed his eyes and walked forward. Each time he tried this trick, wondering if it was a barrier that would disappear if he couldn’t see his surroundings (he’d encountered artificial barriers like that before).
Nope, two steps in, he was ready to retch. Four, and the bile was already in his throat.
He opened his eyes and turned around, facing directly away from Tretarri.
And found himself facing Ianto and the SUV, a folder of paperwork tucked under his folded arms.
‘Evening Jack,’ he said simply, lifting the folder. ‘1912,’ he recited. ‘Agent Harkness was observed in Tretarri, touching the air. Has he lost his mind? 1922: Jack Harkness seen “entertaining” a young lady at the edge of Wharf Street. When she ran to one of the houses, he became agitated until she returned. They engaged in sexual deviancy in the back of the Torchwood Daimler he had previously requisitioned. 1979: Jacko – “Jacko”, really? – anyway, Jacko and a guy with a Mohican, throwing things into Bute Terrace, breaking windows. Is this the kind of behaviour the Torchwood Institute should tolerate?’ He tucked the file back under his arm. ‘Irregular, Jack, I’ll give you that, but regularly irregular enough to pique my curiosity.’
Jack shrugged. ‘You read too many files, Ianto. It’s not good for you. You’ll strain your eyes.’
‘You knew you’d get found out eventually. Better me than Owen or someone else after we’re all dead and forgotten.’
‘Oh, you’re in a cheery mood tonight. Weren’t we going on a date at some point? No offices, no roofs, right?’
Ianto ignored that. ‘And what happens, Jack, when one day you take the requisite four-day holiday noted in these files but never come back because whatever it is you’re doing here decides it’s had enough of you getting nowhere and takes action?’
‘Are you challenging me? You? Honestly? I think I preferred the old “wouldn’t say boo to a goose, forever calling me
‘You disappeared on us once before Jack.’
‘Yeah, and you got a holiday in Tibet out of it. Stop complaining.’
‘You know what I mean. Four days. Does it always take you that time to recover, or do you come here four days in a row?’
‘What do the files tell you?’ Jack grinned at Ianto, that grin that always worked.
Ianto just shrugged. ‘I’d rather you told me.’
Jack stared at his friend. Confidante. Team mate. Lover? Well…
He sighed and pointed behind him. ‘This place. For nearly a century now, I’ve been trying to walk around it, go down a street, knock on a door. Something. Anything. But no, I can’t get past… whatever is stopping me. One thing that file won’t tell you is why I get ill, because I don’t know.’
Ianto walked past Jack and into Wharf Street, easily as anything. He turned back to Jack and threw his arms wide. ‘Nothing strange here, Jack.’
Jack frowned. He was sure the street lighting had grown fractionally brighter while Ianto was speaking. And there was a light in one of the nearby windows. That hadn’t happened before.
‘Come back to me, Ianto. Slowly.’
The Welshman did as he was told, but Jack wasn’t watching him. Just as Ianto drew level with him, the lighting noticeably faded. Jack nodded to himself.
‘Did you see that?’
‘What?’
Clearly not. ‘Never mind. I’m thinking this is all just in my head. After all, there’s nothing dangerous here. Call this Jack’s Pet Project and forget about it, yeah?’
‘And are you still taking your time off?’
Jack considered – maybe one day it would be time to find some answers, helped by the one thing he’d not had before. A team of friends he could rely on. Who would do as asked without a stream (well, there’d be a trickle, of course) of mad questions he couldn’t answer.
But not yet. He needed to get to the bottom of this by himself, Jack decided. Then grinned at Ianto. ‘Yeah. A few days. See you round.’
Here lies the body of Gideon ap Tarri 1813-1881
Now in the arms of God
Reunited with Marjorie, taken 1876
Morgan, Silas: Beloved father and husband. Accidentally taken from us during the Tretarri fire.
RETURN OF THE TRETARRI GHOSTS
Local police were out in force last week to clear a group of “squatters” from Wharf Street. The group of mostly teenaged males claimed that they were happy to leave as the house they had “adopted” was “haunted”. “There’s ghosts and spooks in there, man,” said 19-year-old student Bryan Mathews.
Rumours of ghosts and other supernatural events have been reported in the area for several years. Local priest Reverend Allan Smith of St Paul’s, Grangetown, whose parish the Tretarri area falls under, was dismissive of the reports. “While there are indeed many things in this heaven and Earth for which we have no explanation, I don’t believe that spirits of the dead are living in Tretarri.”
Disaster struck as the Fire Crew responded to the fire in Hanover Street, Tretarri Estate at around 4 a.m. yesterday. A tree in the front garden of the Victorian terraces collapsed in flames in front of the fire engine, killing the driver and one of the firemen instantly. A third foreman was pronounced dead on arrival at St Helen’s Hospital. None of the victims have been named.
… as mentioned in the reports a couple of years back on the guys kicked out by the “authorities” from Tretarri. But it’s important to remember that what they said they saw has never been followed up, never been explained and now Tretarri is derelict again, denying us potential student accommodation. We contacted the Housing Officers at City Hall but, of course, they wouldn’t comment. As that Pistols guy says, “Never trust a hippy”…
