The Twilight Streets t-6

by Gary Russell

  ‘And another thing,’ he growled as Ianto wandered in, ‘where’s the coffee? Is it too much to ask for coffee at the start of a briefing?’

  Ianto never even broke his stride, just turned left, pulled open a side door, revealing a small area replete with jugs, mugs and a mini coffee-maker, a sort of dwarf version of the ensemble upstairs in the Hub.

  Before Jack had even got his next sentence out, a hot mug of his favourite blend (and no, Ianto was never going to tell anyone what that was) was in front of him.

  Owen Harper coughed slightly, and looked meaningfully at Ianto. With a sigh, Ianto glanced across at Gwen Cooper and Toshiko Sato.

  And yes, their eyes all said, they wanted refreshments too.

  Moments later, everyone was drinking, and Jack’s mood seemed significantly lighter.

  ‘OK guys, Ianto’s done his bit – all say thank you to Ianto.’

  They did. In very dull, deadpan voices, like schoolchildren thanking a policeman who’d given them road safety tips at morning assembly.

  But he nodded as if taking applause. ‘I aim to serve.’

  Jack waved him to a seat. ‘Now then, I have to go away for a few days. And yes,’ he looked at Gwen, anticipating her next question, ‘I will have my mobile with me at all times. And no, I’m not disappearing to the far ends of the Earth. I just need… some leave.’

  Owen shrugged. ‘Cool. Take Ianto with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to take the SUV out for a spin, off-road, really ramp up the gears and speed and get it caked in mud.’

  ‘Why,’ Ianto repeated, ‘would you want to do that?’

  ‘Because,’ Owen leaned in conspiratorially, ‘it’d piss you off and I couldn’t bear to do that if you were around. Even I’m not that cruel.’

  ‘OK guys,’ Jack said quickly. ‘Overlooking Owen’s testosterone-inspired madness – remember what happened last time, Owen?’

  Ianto looked straight at Jack. Then Owen. ‘Last time? There’s been a “last time”?’

  ‘Couple of last times,’ Owen replied.

  ‘I was glad you weren’t around,’ Toshiko added. ‘It was very… muddy.’

  ‘Muddy?’

  Gwen touched Ianto’s arm gently. ‘I think they told you it was alien slime from a meteor crash. But it wasn’t.’

  ‘No,’ Ianto said darkly. ‘It was just mud.’

  ‘And you scraped it off beautifully, and gave it to me to test,’ Toshiko added.

  ‘And she did all those tests, trying to find Cortellian nucleotides.’ Owen grabbed Ianto’s unmoving arm. ‘Sorry mate, but it was dead funny at the time.’

  Toshiko fiddled with her glasses, so as not to catch Ianto’s eye. ‘Sorry Ianto. We didn’t know when to stop. But it was very… well, yes, funny.’

  Ianto nodded, staring at his team. His friends. And smiled – inwardly.

  Revenge would be so sweet…

  Jack cleared his throat, bringing them back to the matter at hand. ‘Now, I’ve checked my diary – well, the half-dozen scraps of paper on my desk I pretend represents a diary – and there’s nothing much going on. Tosh, keep going with those upgrades to the Hub defences – we’ve had too many uninvited guests lately. Owen, call me if the Tammarok eggs hatch, I want to be here for that. Ianto, we need more Weevil spray. And Gwen… Gwen, say hi to Rhys and go sort out a venue for that wedding. You have four days. Cos when I’m back, no more wedding talk for, oh, at least a week.’

  He grinned at her, and she smiled back, saluting him.

  Jack reached behind him to grab his Air Force Blue greatcoat from the back of the chair, winked at Ianto and walked out of the boardroom.

  There was a brief pause, and then Gwen broke the ice. ‘Right. OK. Well. Things to do.’

  ‘Oi.’ Owen pointed at Gwen, but looked at Toshiko and Ianto. ‘Who put her in charge?’

  Toshiko frowned. ‘Umm, when Jack’s not here, Gwen always-’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Owen, ‘but she’s been told to go and arrange a wedding. Can’t do that in the Hub.’ He smiled a rare genuine Owen smile at Gwen. ‘Go on, get off. The three of us will protect the world from the aliens for a few more hours.’

  Gwen didn’t hesitate. ‘Thanks, guys. But call me if you need to. Mobile’s always on.’

  And she was gone.

  Ianto looked at the other two. ‘So. The SUV. Mud. Not Cortellian biomass?’

  Toshiko pointed at Owen. ‘It was his idea. All of it. His. Not mine.’

  Owen gazed back at Ianto. ‘Me? Come on, mate, what do I know about alien DNA… I mean, I… Nah, that’s never going to work, is it?’

  Ianto shook his head slowly. And then grinned. ‘Never mind. Good joke.’ And he got up, straightened his perfectly straight tie again and wandered out of the room, hovering outside the door just long enough to hear Toshiko ask Owen:

  ‘What did he mean? “Never mind”? Owen?’

  ‘Dunno, Tosh,’ said Owen quietly, ‘but I’d watch the coffee for a bit.’

  Ianto grinned as he walked away. Coffee? Oh he had a better imagination than that… And they knew it. And would be thinking about it all the time. Everything they ate or drank. Every bit of equipment he got for them. Everything. Oh the next few days were going to be fun.

  Even without Jack.

  FIVE

  Jack was looking up Wharf Street. Again. What was this, the fourteenth time, the third this century?

  Not much had changed.

  At times over the years, the odd house had become squats for students (especially popular during the late 1970s and early 1980s), but they never stayed long. A few bums would sometimes try to find shelter there, but they too would disappear back to the cold streets of Butetown or Grangetown rather than stick in Tretarri.

  Towards the end of the 1990s (a period Jack remembered far too clearly), much of Cardiff Bay began to be done up, ready for the Millennium – gentrified was the usual term. The old buildings had been torn down or converted into luxury waterside apartments. Businesses moved in, tourist holiday spots shot up and, directly above the Hub, a massive complex of shops and restaurants was created.

  But half a mile away was Tretarri, untouched, like a film set or a living museum for the past.

  Although nothing seemed to live there for long.

  Jack noticed a piece of yellow paper tied to a lamp-post and went to read it. Encased in rain-protecting plastic, it announced a proposal by Cardiff Council to redevelop Tretarri, make it full of expensive homes with no car parking, like the rest of Cardiff.

  Good. It needed someone to finally force the life back into it.

  Maybe, after all these years, whatever caused Jack to stay out of the streets, whatever made him feel ill, would go away. Maybe he’d buy a flat there, just to spite whatever it was.

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out a Torchwood PDA, calibrated by Toshiko to detect Rift activity.

  He’d assumed decades ago that Tretarri had to be a real Rift hotspot but, each time he’d tried to take readings, no luck. This was Toshiko’s work though – she was damned good at this kind of thing.

  He raised the PDA and stepped forward, already feeling the nausea rising in his stomach, but determined to get as close as possible to try and achieve some kind of reading.

  Of course, he could’ve brought Gwen or Ianto with him. But that would have meant revealing this little chink in his armour – admitting that there was something unsubstantiated, unreal, untouchable that hurt Captain Jack Harkness. Jack was cool about such things normally but, after all these years, he’d come to think of this collection of roads and houses as his thing, his pet project. Something he needed to do by himself.

  The PDA blinked at him. Yes, Rift energy was present around Tretarri, but no more so than, say, up by the new shopping complex behind The Hayes, or down by the football ground at Ninian Park. In other words, Tretarri 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 sir” version of Ianto Jones.’

  ‘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.’

  Extract from diaries left to the Museum by Michael Cathcart in 2004

  October 1954. Friday. Sad news, they found that old tramp Tommy and his dog dead in the street last night. Just down off Coburg Street, linking Wharf Street with Bute Terrace. Shame, he was a good’un at heart. Always telling tall stories about the history of Cardiff. Never got to the bottom of the thing with the lights he was talking about a few months back that I wrote about in Journal 17. Nice dog, too. Only been with Tommy a couple of years.

  Headstone in St Mary’s Church, Llantrisent

  Here lies the body of Gideon ap Tarri 1813-1881

  Now in the arms of God

  Reunited with Marjorie, taken 1876

  Obituaries, Western Mail, 14 July 1986

  Morgan, Silas: Beloved father and husband. Accidentally taken from us during the Tretarri fire.

  Western Mail, 13 July 1975

  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.”

  Extract from Mid Glamorgan Morning Star, 26 June 1986

  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.

  Extract from student newspaper The Heath, 6 August 1978

  … 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”…

  Extract from diaries left to the Museum by Michael Cathcart in 2004

  May 1947. Tuesday. Went to Tretarri, see what all the fuss was about. But nothing. No ghosts, no ghouls, no visitations of any kind. Just a tramp, old Tommy, who’s been living in and around Grangetown for years.

  Extract from memos between L Morris, BBC H of RF (London) to R de Houghton, BBC Ctrllr L P – docs. 01.02.1961

  Sir – as noted in our memo of Monday last, we have checked and rechecked the tapes. Everything that was recorded in Cardiff is blank. However, as my producer explained to Asst Ctrllr L P – docs and features on Thursday, we had done some editing work, so I know the damage to the tapes occurred after we returned to BH, for we listened to everything through before making an editing script for the Pas to work from.

  Extract from Building Commission, 3 rd quarter 2005

  … trees lining the street need to be cut right back. Planning permission refused for change of use from house to three flats at 38 Gainsborough Gardens. Planning permission pending for conversion of attic space at 116 Riley Road, Canton to bedroom and en suite WC. Planning permission granted for demolition of entirety of Tretarri estate, work to begin by September, construction of new apartments and office space to be put out to tender by 3 November. Planning permission refused for 69 Prospect Avenue, Ely for construction of two garage spaces in rear garden…

  Extract from Local History pamphlet, o
n sale in Wales Millennium Centre shop, 2007

  The area referred to as Tretarri was established as a small town in 1872 by Gideon ap Tarri, landowner of West Grangetown and North Penarth arable land.

  Extract from diaries left to the Museum by Michael Cathcart in 2004

  January 1961. Saturday. Tretarri is becoming a legend apparently. The BBC were there, a Light Programme about ghosts the man said. I offered to show them my journals, my diaries, but they weren’t interested. Bloody English, so ******** superior.

  Obituaries, Western Mail, 14 July 1986

  Sheppard, Martin: Devoted husband to Helen. Accidentally taken from us during the Tretarri fire.

  Extract from Fire Examiner’s report (suppressed under Govt Resolution 8A/dcl/1913)

  My people could find no evidence of fire damage to any of the terraced houses in Hanover Street, Coburg Street or Windsor Street. Eyewitnesses, including the surviving firemen, all reported identical descriptions, within reason, of the fire and the gutting of at least two of the houses, on the corner of Coburg Street and Bute Terrace, formerly occupied by illegal immigrants from Albania. This inexplicable event is exacerbated by the occupants all receiving invitations to a restaurant in Butetown that night for a family birthday celebration. The Albanians all reported, when interviewed separately, in different police stations within Cardiff, that the restaurant did not exist.

  Government inspectors accessed the area but reported feelings of paranoia, of trepidation or general fear and mistrust when they explored the neighbourhood.

  Extract from Cardiff Bay and Its History by Eleri Vaughan (TaffTours Ltd, 1992)

  The legends surrounding the area known as Tretarri are as fanciful as the area itself. Too small to be a real town or village, Tretarri is little more than a cluster of Victorian streets built as a vanity project by mine owner Gideon Tarry, who adopted Cardiff as his hometown in 1852, after changing his surname from his birth name, Haworth. His claims to be a Welshman were finally disproved ten years ago by students at Cardiff Grammar, researching biographies of famous Welshmen for a modern Domesday Book. Tarry’s origins and subsequent death remain clouded in mystery but it is known that he invested a great deal of money building Tretarri, ostensibly for workers. However, no workers ever lived there after 1876 – the ‘town’ itself is seen as an eccentric form of the traditional Victorian Folly beloved of so many rich landowners during the late nineteenth century.