by Gary Russell
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 come, 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.
The Seconders for these Beasts raised their hands in unison, and the crimson energy about our heads became a whirlpool of incredible power, I could feel the air being drawn from my body and feared I would die there in the street, but the Beasts, only their heads and shoulders above ground, now turned to face one another, sending rocks and earth into the air as they did so.
The tiny lights within the crimson storm darted about, some with the Grey Beast, some garnered with the Blue Beast, and I understood that what I witnessed was beyond the ken of mortal man. Truly, I was seeing a battle of the darkest order.
Energies flew about the Beasts’ heads, although they moved little, other than to twist their heads and roar inhuman words at one another. The main warring seemed to be between the lights in the storm, the ones nearest the Blue Beast had now become solid blackness rather than the brightness of the Grey Beast’s allies. Light versus Dark.
‘Indeed,’ said a voice beside me.
I realised the Seconder for the Grey Beast was beside me. He explained he was known as Bilis Manger; he believed he embodied the Pain of the Devourer, whatever that meant. He referred to his opposite as Cafard Manger, perhaps confirming my view they were related, or twins even. I never had the opportunity to enquire, for this Bilis entrusted me with a task.
He explained that the fair City of Cardiff was home to these Beasts, and had been since the dawn of creation. Something called a Rift splintered through the land, I gathered this to be the crimson smoke about our heads, and that the two Beasts were fighting for control of it.
Or to escape it.
He passed me this book and a special pen of a kind I had never seen before. He said it would write words but I would not be able to read them back.
He said it was essential that I wrote today’s events down in this diary – and nothing else.
And that when the day was won or lost by one of the Beasts and its Seconder, I was to seal this diary up and ensure it was buried here in Cardiff with me.
I pointed out that it was likely I would be leaving Cardiff soon, that, without Marjorie, I had no reason to stay in my adopted hometown, but Bilis was insistent. It mattered not where I travelled, provided that I was buried here in Cardiff. In St Mary’s churchyard, which was in a remote part of north Cardiff.
But I should tell you of the battle – except that I am, to be honest, ignorant of what exactly occurred. A lot of growling by the Beasts and a lot of back and forth by the black and white lights.
Bilis Manger and the other Seconder did nothing until, after about five minutes, the crimson storm flared very brightly, the white lights winked away and the Blue Beast rose up higher and the Grey one vanished beneath the ground.
With a final roar, the Blue Beast beat his chest like some giant ape from the dark continents, and it too vanished through the gaping crack from whence it came and the hole sealed up, and the crimson storm was gone.
The two Seconders remained – the one I know to be Cafard walked towards Bilis. They shook hands, and, in the strangest piece of hokum ever, Cafard seemed to press against Bilis and vanish, almost as if, somehow, he were inside the man I had spoken to.
Bilis said one last thing to me.
He said Tretarri was no longer mine, nor was it for the workers. He said they should all be out of their homes within seven days, or he would not be responsible for the consequences. But I did not take this as a threat, more of an apology. I got the impression this rather dear man was concerned for their wellbeing.
Having witnessed the battle of the Beasts, I could only agree.
I asked Bilis what he would do now – the Beast he worked for was seemingly defeated.
He told me, and I remember his words so clearly: ‘I walk through the eternity of past, present and possible futures, until such time as my Lord Abaddon is reborn. Until then, you, Gideon ap Tarri, must remember two things. Firstly, the word “Torchwood”, for it will destroy the future. And secondly, that I, Bilis Manger, shall seek the ultimate revenge for the future. Because it must not come to pass – and yet without my Lord Abaddon, it will.’
I never saw him again.
Over the next week, I re-housed my loyal workers in newer accommodations in the Windsor and Bute Esplanades.
Only once more did I try to visit Tretarri but something there kept me out. Not physically, but I was afeared when I entered it, my heart palpitated, and my throat was parched in a second. I could not rationalise this, but I know and respect fear and swore never to return.
As bidden by Bilis Manger, who disappeared from my life that day and has never returned, I have written this down four years hence.
I have made it a stipulation of my Last Will and Testament that this diary shall be buried with me. I am placing it within a wooden box in my attic. Today will be the last time I ever see it.
Gideon ap Tarri
12 June 1880
I have recourse to retrieve this diary and, for the sake of Bilis Manger if ever he finds it, make note of the events of this afternoon.
A man approached me, a Scots man I believe. He claimed he represented Her Majesty Queen Victoria. He gave me no name, but he had a military bearing along with the uniform, so I had no reason no doubt his claim.
He asked, nay, demanded the diary.
When I feigned ignorance, he explained he was from the Torchwood Institute in London.
Bilis, my friend, I cannot say for sure if this diary will now be buried with me, for I feel I must flee, if only to draw this Torchwood away from the diary. If we remain in one another’s company, they shall I am sure locate it.
I hope, desperately hope, that my panic is for nought and I shall return to Cardiff shortly.
But today, I am headed away from here. I shall not say where.
This may be my last entry.
God be with you
Gideon Tarry, formerly Gideon Haworth Esq
18 September 1881
SIXTEEN
Rhys Williams glanced at the clock on the wall: 11.46am. He adjusted his tie in the mirror, and brushed a bit of dust off the collar of his Savile Row suit. Neatness mattered.
Alone in the room, he slipped the jacket off and took a sideon look at himself. ‘Thirty-two-inch waist for the first time since you were eighteen, Rhys Alun Williams,’ he said proudly. ‘Not bad for a man getting closer to the wrong side of thirty-five.’
‘Too true, Mister Sexy Pants,’ Gwen said, emerging from the en suite.
Rhys took her, all of her, in his arms, and they kissed. Passionately. Longingly. Slowly, he led her towards the bed.
She broke off, laughing. ‘Calm down, lover,’ she said, patting her extended belly. ‘Not till junior is out and running about.’
‘Running about?’ Rhys put on a mock stressed expression. ‘He won’t be playing for the Torchwood IX Under-10s for another few years. I have to wait till then?’
They laughed. ‘About another three hours,’ Gwen said, ‘and I’m all yours again.’
Rhys was serious. ‘Gwen, God knows I’ve hated Torchwood and I’ve loved Torchwood, but right now I’m scared of Torchwood.’
‘Oh, not again…’
‘I’m serious. OK, so this alien technology you lot found, yeah, it guarantees safe delivery, yeah, it negates caesareans and breeches or whatever, but…’
‘But it’s still alien tech, and you don’t like it.’
Rhys looked down at his feet. ‘Jack didn’t like it,’ he said quietly.
Gwen just stood there, all passion and love drained in a second. She sat in the chair at the dresser, refusing to look directly at Rhys, instead directing her voice at his reflection. ‘Jack isn’t here any more.’
Rhys wouldn’t catch her eye. ‘He didn’t trust the dependency on alien tech, Gwen, and, for all his faults, I trusted Jack’s integrity, if not his morality. If something goes wrong—’
‘Nothing will go wrong, Rhys, for crying out loud. Owen tested it! Owen, the man you were happy enough to let save my life once before.’
‘I saved you!’
‘Using his alien tech! If it was good enough then—’
Rhys leapt up. ‘That was an emergency, Gwen. That was life and death. That was the most terrifying day of my bloody life, and I had no choice but to trust Owen Bloody Harper. Now, now I have a choice!’
Gwen spun round on him. ‘No! No, Rhys, you don’t. I’m doing this because I’m the one facing hours of labour, I’m the one facing depression and illness and pain. I’m the one facing the possibility that, after nine months carrying this baby, something could go wrong and it dies. Or I die.’
‘Our baby,’ Rhys muttered, not caring whether Gwen heard him or not.
‘So, yeah, I’m happy to use technology that guarantees one hundred per cent a healthy boy and a healthy mum. I’d have thought my darling husband would be happy at that thought.’
Rhys knew he’d lost. ‘I do, love, believe me. I just think that what my mam said about natural birth—’
And Gwen was up and heading out of the bedroom.
‘Brenda Bloody Williams and her pre-natal care. If there’s anything that almost stopped me getting pregnant, it was knowing that at the back of every decision we made your mother would be saying, “Oh, I’m not sure that’s the way to hold a baby,” or “Are you really dressing him in that,” or “Are you sure that’s the right food for a baby,” or “In my day, children were seen and not heard.” Screw you, Rhys and screw your mam too!’
With a loud slam of the door, she was out, clattering down the stairs.
No, not stopping at the next level, going all the way down to the front door.
SLAM.
Gone.
Rhys sighed to himself, checked his tie again, slipped the jacket on and followed her downstairs, through the front door and out to the car.
She was sitting in the passenger seat. He slid into the driving seat.
‘Alien tech, eh?’ he said. ‘Can save all those pains, can’t do a bloody thing about your hormones, can it?’
Gwen stared at him. ‘Shut up.’
‘I mean, cos that’d be really useful wouldn’t it. “Hi, I’m Owen Harper, I can give something really useful to the world. Hormonal balance.” Now that would be an improvement.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I mean, look at the time. In thirty minutes, we’ll have a baby boy, happy, healthy and perfect in an Orwell-would-have-hatedit way. But after all that, I bet you’ll still be grumpy, unpredictable, eating raw pickles by the cartload and phoning me at the office and accusing me of shagging Ruth.’
‘Shut up.’ A beat. ‘Which one’s Ruth?’
Rhys used his hands to suggest a somewhat large lady.
‘Oh, that Ruth, from Harwoods? Ruth, now your staff liaison officer?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Well, if I thought you were humping Ruth, my hormones would be the least of your problems. Now, can you get me to St Helen’s maternity wing in the next thirty minutes or shall I have the natural birth you so desperately want all over the insides of your Porsche?’
Rhys pressed the ignition switch. The car roared into life, and he eased it away from the front door and down the long drive.
He flicked a button on the dash, and the security gates started to open.Two armed Torchwood guards in the gatehouse waved politely as he steered out into the midday sun and on their journey towards Cardiff and the birth of their baby.
‘I sometimes think,’ Rhys said, checking no one was following them, ‘that those guards Tosh gave you are as much to keep us in as to guard us.’
‘You worry too much.’
‘I worry that if the Torchwood Empire is so beneficial to mankind, then why do we need protecting and who from?’
‘From whom,’ Gwen corrected.
‘Ooh, get the girl from Swansea and her posh English.’ Rhys adjusted the rear-view mirror as they trundled through the outer areas of the city.
‘Not sure I like this area, Rhys,’ Gwen said. ‘Isn’t there a better route? Through Whitchurch?’
Rhys gritted his teeth, knowing that he was going to get shouted at again.
‘Dunno, Gwen. I think it does us all good to take the odd trip through the less fortunate ends of the Empire, see how the other half live. I mean, I know mothers aren’t your preferred choice of subject, but if yours was still here I’m not sure she’d approve of what we’ve become.’
Gwen put a hand on Rhys’s. ‘It’s not like that, love. I didn’t plan this.You didn’t plan to run the Council, we never planned for Torchwood to create an empire, but history tells us that to create a Utopia, a bit of darkness has to be present, to make the light glow stronger.’
Rhys said nothing and they drove in silence, until the sat-nav spoke, telling them they were thirteen minutes away from St Helen’s Hospital.
‘When Tosh and Owen finish
the project, Rhys, I promise you, the world that baby Gareth inherits will be one that has made all this worthwhile.’
Rhys put his foot down and, before long, they were approaching the hospital, a group of Torchwood guards and nursing staff greeting them.
As they pulled up, Rhys looked at his wife, and then nodded to the group outside. ‘When I married you, I imagined an NHS hospital, me pacing the corridors for eight hours drinking weak-as-piss tea, and Jack stood there, winding me up saying it was an alien. Or his. Or both. But I love you so much, and I trust that you know what you’re doing. Even without Jack Bloody Harkness to guide us all.’
Gwen kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll text you when he’s been born.’
‘One last thing, love,’ Rhys said as the car door opened. ‘I never agreed to Gareth. I reckon Geraint. After your dad. Good name, good thing for our boy to live up to.’
And Gwen grabbed him and kissed him savagely and powerfully.
Rhys eased her away, embarrassed. The assembled staff outside were applauding them in that way that Torchwood staff always applauded.
Nauseatingly, and slightly insincerely.
Jack Harkness would have hated this new Torchwood.
And then Gwen was out of sight, inside the building.
Rhys eased the car out of the car park then drove towards the city. He needed to get to work for a late-night session about what to do with the irradiated Bay. Ever since the Hub had exploded, the whole area had been in desperate need of reclamation.
As he drove, Rhys pulled a Bluetooth earpiece from his pocket, slipped it on and spoke to the sat-nav.
‘Override Torchwood comms. Clearance five stroke nine.’
‘Confirmed. Signal scrambled.’
‘Connect me with Friend 16.’
‘Confirmed.’
There was a buzz and then a click.
A Welsh voice spoke, curtly, passionless. ‘What do you want, Williams?’
‘Gwen is safe. If you’re going to do it, please do it now.’
The line went dead.
