The Twilight Streets t-6
Page 17
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.
‘Umm, your father?’
‘No,’ the old man said, smiling. ‘No, although in many ways, he was like one to me. No, I used to serve a very wise and wonderful master, but he died a while ago. I have only recently been trusted with my Lord’s ashes and am taking them to be interred out of Britain.’
‘Right. I’m sorry. Clearly he meant a great deal to you.’
‘Indeed. And you, sir? Why are you travelling today?’
‘Oh, me? I, well, I got a job offer. Out of the blue actually. And for some reason Cardiff felt a bit… you know, cloying after living there so many years. So I thought, hell, Idris Hopper, why not? Why not take a gamble and do something exciting with your life? So, same basic job but in a new environment.’
‘You speak the language?’
‘Yes. Need to in my line of work. English, German, French, Italian and a smattering of Russian. Not much Welsh, mind.’
The old man smiled at this. ‘Excellent. I admire a man who can converse freely.’ He shuffled in his seat. ‘Well, if you will excuse me, I need to rest for a while.’
‘Oh, not at all,’ Idris said, secretly glad he wouldn’t need to make conversation with the nice old man and his rather scary box of ashes.
The old man gave Idris one last look before turning back to his snooze.
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Hopper. And good luck in Berlin.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Firstly, thanks to Russell, Julie, Chris and Richard for letting me do this – and especially to Cath for being so generous about Bilis.
Thanks, too, to poor Brian, who has had to share an office with me when I’ve been in my darkest ‘ohgodihavetowritreabookinaludicrouslyshorttime’ moods; to John Roulston-Bates for his life-saving apartment and desktop in Noo Yoik; to Steve Tribe for quite amazing patience; and to Charlotte Bruton for being in my corner so readily and so often.
And, finally, to all the Torchwood TV series writers and actors who’ve made these characters so much fun to transfer to a different medium.
Yaaay Torchwood!
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