by Gary Russell
FIFTEEN
Owen Harper was on the verge of throwing the blood samples against the walls of the Autopsy Room. Somehow, flecking the white brickwork with red splatter seemed more worthwhile than what he was doing right now.
‘I can’t do it, Jack,’ he yelled, knowing no one could hear him, cos the Hub was empty. ‘Whatever you’ve got in your body, I can’t isolate it!’
He kicked the autopsy table instead.
It was just as melodramatic, but less destructive. Although his left toes might not agree for the next minute or so.
‘Stupid, stupid…’
He turned back to the screen projected on the white wall behind him. Jack’s blood. Jack’s DNA. Jack’s tissue samples. If he’d had any, frankly, he’d have happily tested Jack’s faeces, sperm, anything that might help find out what made Jack Harkness unique amongst mankind.
‘Are you trying to find out what stops him going into Tretarri?’ asked a silky voice from above him. ‘Or to isolate what actually makes him come back to life?’
Owen didn’t look up into the Hub. He knew it was Bilis. The idea that the little old man could come and go no longer alarmed Owen. He took a deep breath and carried on working. ‘If you’ve anything useful to add, tell me. Otherwise, piss off out of the Hub, I’m busy.’
And Bilis was in front of him, hands behind his back, smiling, head slightly cocked as if listening to something.
‘There’s a cry in your head, Owen,’ he said. ‘A sound. A connection. To our chum in the cells, and all the others out there.’
‘Dunno what you’re talking about, mate.’
‘Yes you do,’ Bilis said simply. ‘You’ve known for a long time. But you don’t tell anyone else, do you? Because it frightens you. You know there’s something of the Weevil about you. On one level, it’s just a post-traumatic thing. You identify with their bestiality, because you know that beneath the snarls, beneath the aggression, are intelligent, communal beings who need one another. And, like the Weevils, Owen Harper wants to believe he can survive alone, when what he really needs is a good hug.’
Owen just stared at Bilis, then forced a smile on his face. ‘You should go into counselling, mate,’ he said.
And he turned back to his blood samples, so Bilis wouldn’t see the frown. A frown because Bilis, damn him, had a point.
Not so much the loneliness – Owen had got accustomed to that, but no, the Weevils thing. He did find he had some weird connection to them. And that scared him because he couldn’t work out why he was drawn to them.
He felt Bilis’s hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry Owen. It will make sense in the future. And for that, I am truly sorry.’
Owen shook the hand off. ‘You are ten seconds away from being shot,’ he said.
Bilis laughed a soft humourless laugh. ‘Oh we know that’s not going to happen. But other things are that will be life-changing for you. And I can’t help you. No one can. Remember how fragile life is, Owen Harper. As a doctor, you know that. Learn to cherish it.’
And Owen saw something on the floor. A revolver, just lying there, a curl of smoke petering out above the barrel.
Then it was gone. And so was Bilis.
Owen searched the Hub, the lower levels, the upper levels and even the Boardroom, but no sign.
Exactly how he wound up in the Vaults, staring at the Weevil in its cell, he couldn’t remember.
But now he was there, unaware that, as Bilis had earlier, he had pressed his hand against the plastic door. On the other side, the imprisoned Weevil pressed its own hand to the door.
‘Why are you here?’ Owen asked it. ‘How do you cope in this alien environment?’
The Weevil said nothing.
Owen pulled back. Jesus, he was talking to Weevils. What was going on with him these days?
‘Poor bloody thing,’ he thought. ‘Shoved into an alien environment, a cage with so many security doors to stop you getting out to where you think you belong. Waiting for something to go wrong, waiting for the security systems to go down like before. Giving you access to the forbidden Hub and beyond that the wastelands of Cardiff, the sewers, the landfills, the-’
Of course! That was it, they’d been looking at this all the wrong way round.
Owen belted from the Vaults back to the Boardroom.
And that was his mistake – he was so determined to contact Jack, to warn him, because he’d figured it out.
Because he was Owen. Because he was always the fool who rushed in.
And because he never saw the bigger picture.
Never saw what was behind him.
‘Jack,’ he slammed his fist on the comms system, knowing that, wherever Jack had gone, he’d have his cochlear Bluetooth activated. ‘Jack, listen to me!’
Nothing.
‘Damn it, Jack, I hope you’re just being bloody-minded and can hear me anyway. Listen, it’s not that you can’t get in, you can. There’s nothing in you stopping you, it’s deliberate. Not your body or anything. Tretarri itself is locked to you. You need a key… No, that’s not it. It’s… it’s like a lockdown here – at some point, you are going to be let in, but on the town’s terms! Shit, Jack, it’s a trap waiting to be sprung. It’s a trap and that’s why it’s got Tosh. She’s bait, Jack. You’ve got to get back here – now!’
Nothing.
‘Jack! For God’s sake!’
‘I knew it would be you,’ said Bilis, standing behind him. ‘You’re so methodical, leaving nothing to chance. If at first he doesn’t succeed, Owen Harper tries and tries again.’
Owen was round, ready to fight, but Bilis was so much faster.
‘I blocked the comms system, sorry,’ said Bilis, as he grabbed Owen’s hands. ‘If Jack tries to call in, he’ll get Craig Armstrong’s Bolero. I thought it suited his… taste for the debauched.’
Owen was expecting an easy fight – Bilis was what, seventy-five, eighty? Weedy, stick-like, bit theatrical?
But Owen was wrong, and Owen was on his knees, then prone in seconds as Bilis crushed his hands as if he were a pneumatic vice.
Owen heard a shriek of unendurable agony and realised it was his own voice, and then the darkness took him.
Jack liked the waterside. He walked along, watching the lights of the modern apartments opposite contrasting with the Victorian terraces behind him.
A couple of late-night ducks splashed in the water, and Jack leaned over to look at them. By now, the moon was up, a three-quarter orb in the sky, bright white, and it reflected on the largely unbroken waters, only the odd duckedformed ripple fragmenting the image.
Jack thought of space. Of being up there. Out amongst the stars. He could have gone back, not long ago. He’d had the chance, but opted not to take it. Cardiff, specifically the team at Torchwood, needed him. Earth needed him. Every single one of these bizarre little people needed him. And damn it, he needed them, too. They made him feel alive, gave him a purpose, gave him a reason to live.
‘Jack.’
He felt the word whispered in his ear, so softly it could almost have been the breeze. Except there wasn’t one.
He shivered anyway.
And realised that there was someone beside him. He could see the reflection in the water.
‘No,’ said the voice. ‘Don’t turn around. Just listen. I’m trying, trying so hard to do everything you taught me, but it’s difficult to maintain myself. It’s got all four of them, Jack. There’s just you now.’
The figure loomed forward and Jack saw a face. A young man, tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed (oh God, those beautiful eyes he hadn’t seen for so long), the cheekbones he wanted to rest a coffee mug on. No toothy smile though. Just a pained expression.
Jack’s heart literally jumped, and he breathed in sharply and deeply. ‘Greg,’ he breathed out.
‘I’m sorry, Jack, it’s so powerful. I’m really trying though… Please believe me.’
Jack stared at the reflection. He’d seen enough movies to know that, if he turned round, Gre
g would not be there.
‘Is it Bilis Manger?’
Greg frowned. ‘It’s so bright. And so dark. And I don’t know where I am, Jack. But it’s got them. It’s hurting them, Jack.’
‘Is it Bilis Manger?’ Jack spat, spinning round.
But Greg had gone.
Now it really had got cold. Damn the river, damn the park, damn the bloody ducks. He’d got distracted.
He ran, as fast as he could, across the park, up the steps onto the link road, across the roundabout and into Mermaid Quay.
By the time he reached Ianto’s shop front, he knew he was too late.
Standing further back, by the ice-cream parlour over the water, was Bilis.
The shop had a huge iron bar across the doorway, held in place by a massive, almost comically huge, iron padlock.
Instinctively, Jack tapped his ear. ‘Owen?’ he barked.
Nothing. No, not nothing – music. That was a new one.
He looked over at Bilis. ‘What have you done to Owen? Let me into the Hub!’
But Bilis was holding the padlock key in the air. He smiled, turned and threw it into the middle of the inner harbour. It vanished with a damp plop, and Bilis vanished as instantly.
Jack tried wrenching the bar off the door, but he knew it was futile.
He dashed up through Roald Dahl Plass to the water tower, activating the perception-filtered step/elevator via his wrist-strap as he ran, but when he got there, nothing happened.
People were staring at him as he jumped onto the step, ignoring water splashing around.
Damn, how could they see him?
Why wasn’t he moving down?
Four or five bemused people were watching him now. Among them, he realised, was Bilis Manger. Bilis waved, turned his back and walked into the foyer of the Millennium Centre.
Jack hurled himself past the crowds and into the venue.
Everywhere there were people – it was fifteen minutes to curtain up, and there were crowds moving up the steps on the left to the massive auditorium of the Donald Gordon Theatre, and more people were sweeping through from the bars and cafés from the right, heading past the desks and to the same steps.
Jack tried to focus, but he knew that Bilis would already have gone.
‘Mr Harkness?’
It was a maroon-waistcoated staffer, a collection of programmes for the show in his hand.
‘Yeah?’
‘The gentleman said you’d be here. He asked me to make sure you got your ticket. He’s already gone in.’
Jack took the ticket, but didn’t read it, instead looking towards the throng moving up the steps.
He was never going to able to confront Bilis in a theatre full of people.
‘No, sir,’ said the staffer, noting the direction Jack was gazing. ‘The gallery exhibitions are up the right steps, Level 2, sir.’ He pointed through the crowd in the direction of the bars.
Jack thanked him and eased himself slowly through the crowd, getting one or two hissed complaints as he stepped on a toe or knocked a handbag out of a manicured hand.
Eventually, he reached the wooden steps leading to the smaller galleries and conference rooms and took them three at a time.
He glanced at the ticket and read:
RECEPTION FOR THE TIME AGENCY.
UPPER BAR. GLANFA.
He threw himself into the bar, hand on his holster, expecting trouble.
Instead, he found a quiet, brightly lit bar, one barman and Bilis Manager, looking as cool and dapper as ever, sipping sherry from a glass, a waiter stood beside him, holding a tray of sherry glasses.
‘Jack,’ Bilis said expansively, as if welcoming an old friend to a party. ‘Delighted you could make it.’
Jack still kept his hand on his gun, but slowed to a casual walk as he headed to where Bilis stood.
The old man toasted him and then nodded to the windows, which showed the reverse of the words cut into the front of the building. Jack looked out towards the water tower below.
‘“In these stones, horizons sing.” They are inspiring words, don’t you think, Jack?’
Jack shrugged. ‘What do you want?’
‘Creating truth like glass from the furnace of inspiration – written by Wales’s first-ever national poet. Truth is a strange thing – one man’s truth is another man’s pack of lies.’
Jack turned away from Bilis. ‘If you’ve nothing relevant to say, Bilis, I have a team to find.’
‘Oh, you won’t be able to do that, I’m afraid. They won’t let you. Not yet. Tomorrow maybe, at the launch party.’
Jack turned back, walked to Bilis, ignoring the waiter, who staggered back as Jack cannoned into him. He grabbed Bilis by his red cravat, swallowing his surprise that the old man didn’t just vanish.
But then, maybe he hadn’t been expecting Jack to do that – so he could be surprised, caught unawares. Good.
‘Talking of furnaces of inspiration, I’m damn well inspired to chuck you through the glass and see if you can vanish in mid-air. But you know, I don’t think that would achieve anything. Where are they?’
‘I honestly can’t answer that, I’m awfully sorry.’ Bilis freed himself and straightened his clothing. ‘But I’m sure they are safe. I don’t think they want to hurt them.’
‘They?’
‘The Light, Jack. The Light and the Dark – forever at war, battling across the dimensions for centuries, coming here through your blessed Rift. My Lord understood them, but you destroyed him. And when you did that, they were free to do as they wanted. Capricious elements, you might say.’
‘What’s your role in this?’
‘I’m bound to them as I was bound to my Lord. I am but a humble servant – I see time, all time, past, present and so many potential futures. I can give you a glimpse of any number of futures, if you like, Jack. It’d keep you safely away. And give you so many clues.’
‘To what?’
‘To everything.’
Jack looked around the room. The waiter and barman were chatting at the bar, oblivious to the scene by the windows.
‘What are you, Bilis?’
Bilis opened his mouth as if to answer, then stopped.
For the first time, Jack sensed… panic? Weakness?
‘Losing the war, Jack,’ Bilis said. ‘Maybe not the battle, but the war. This is the century, Jack, remember?’
He put his hand into his pocket and produced a locket on a chain.
Jack frowned – he was sure he’d seen that before. Where?
Bilis pocketed it again. ‘Anyway, Captain Jack Harkness, I do hope you can join me tomorrow at the grand opening of Tretarri. It’s been a party in the making for so long.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Seems to me you turned everything around real quick.’
Bilis grinned. ‘Oh my dear Captain, how little you understand. But you will. You will.’
And Bilis was gone.
So were the staff. Jack stood in the semi-darkness. The bar was shuttered, and there was no sign anyone had been in the room for hours.
My story starts with the earthquake of 1876, four years past. It was only a minor inconvenience to most, few realised what it was or that it seemed centred on my beloved Tretarri.
But I knew. I knew the truth, for there were no natural fires that night. No, instead, the great gods of the underworld tore their way through to the surface of our small planet, their eternal fights and battles spilling over into our reality.
And only I was there to pay witness to these events, to commune with the demons therein and their pitiful servants.
But I get ahead of myself. It was a normal eve, as I recall – as normal as any had been since my beloved Marjorie had been taken from me. The families of Tretarri were at St Paul’s Church, in Grangetown, but I had foresworn Our Lord and his ministries since losing Marjorie.
I stood at the heart of the village as the ground began to shake, and smoke belched from the ground.
I believed my time had com
e, that I would not survive the next few moments, and I began to think of Marjorie. I find it interesting that, even in those seconds of terror, not once did I offer prayer or give thought to the Lord God above.
And the streets were split asunder by a huge fire and crimson smoke, while bizarre phantasmagorias of lights and other energies could be seen amidst the smoke.
The sounds were deafening but, as I later learned, no one outside the village heard or saw anything, although the fires that night drew the attention of the constabulary and other authorities who believed it to be a straightforward fire in number 6 Coburg Street. And, in fear of my sanity and my standing, I am ashamed to say I never gave them cause to think otherwise.
I am just eternally grateful that no innocent souls were lost that night.
‘Souls’. How easily I write such words, and yet believe in them not.
I hid in the doorway of a home on Bute Terrace, lost in mute fear of that which I was seeing, as a massive hand, the size of a horse and carriage, erupted from within the vast crack that had split the road asunder. Grey, taloned – I remember every detail right down to the ridges on the knuckles, so terrified was I that it is burned upon my memory for, I fear, the rest of my days. The fearsome claws raked across the road, getting a grip to enable the rest of its foul body to haul itself upwards, the reddish smoke still crackling and dancing around above, rivulets of lights darting across its path, as if each sparkle were a life of its own.
An arm, a shoulder and then a mastiff-like head reared up, ignoring me but belching fire, snarling and retching its foulness into our air.
At the far end of the street, a second identical creature appeared, this one a royal blue in colour, in the same stage of emergence.
And that was when I observed two men, both in their later years, just standing at either end of Bute Terrace, as if standing Second for the two inhuman duellists.
I am taken with the fancy that they not only stood and dressed with the bearing of men alike but, facially, they may have been twins. I confess my attention was not on them for very long, but my instinct is to say they were identical twins. I cannot offer any evidence to back this up other than my memories of brief observation.
