Gary Russell - The Twilight Streets

But he didn’t mind. They were getting married soon. She had said yes. YES! To marrying him! How bloody brilliant was that!

‘Daf, she said yes!’ he’d said triumphantly to one of his drinking buddies the day after.

‘Hey, Banana, how’s Lanzarote? I got some news, mate,’ he’d said to another on the phone.

‘Mam, it’s Rhys. I got some news for you. Great news. Well, I think it’s great news. Well, it’s great for me. No, I told you, I won’t know about the job for a couple of weeks. No… no, will you listen… Look, you better sit down then… No, I’ve not had an accident, Jesus, will you let me speak?’ That one had gone a bit downhill, truth be told.

And today, he and Gwen were going to agree on a venue. Well, he suspected he was going to be told what the venue was. And who was coming. And what he was wearing.

And you know what, that was fine. Because he was marrying the most fantastic woman in the world and, so long as she had the wedding she wanted, that was good enough for him!

So long as bloody Torchwood didn’t get in the way – oh God, maybe that’s why she was late. Maybe Jack bloody Harkness, aka God, had told her she couldn’t have the day off.

Did Torchwood even do days off?

He never asked her that. Somehow the idea of Handsome Jack signing leave forms appealed to Rhys.

‘Excuse me, it’s Rhys Williams isn’t it?’

Rhys looked up at the old guy stood beside him. Smart dresser, bit… you know, fey , his mam would say. Maybe it was the voice.

‘Umm, yeah?’

‘You look well. Better than the last time I saw you.’

‘Have we met?’

‘You might say that. Once upon a time, in a different life.’ The old man produced a business card.

Rhys read the name and shrugged. ‘Sorry mate…’

‘That’s quite all right. I’m… a friend of Gwen’s. I gather congratulations are in order.’

Rhys grinned. ‘Thanks very much.’

The old man grinned too. ‘I just wanted to say how nice it is to meet you properly, and I hope you have a long, happy life.’ And the smile was gone. ‘Because the price paid for you to have this one was terribly high.’

And Rhys felt a bit awkward. Was this guy a loony? Did he really know Gwen?

Oh, he could ask her, there she was.

‘God Rhys, I’m really, really sorry,’ she said, coming through the door and heading to the seat.

Rhys turned to present the old man, but he was gone.

‘That’s odd,’ he muttered. ‘There was a scary man here, wanted to say hi.’

‘Who was he?’

‘I dunno. Knew me though. And you. Said he was a mate of yours.’

Gwen looked around the crowd in the café, looking for someone she knew.

‘He said some strange things,’ Rhys finished. ‘Oh, and he left you his card.’

Gwen took the card and Rhys saw the colour drain from her face.

‘You OK, love?’

For a moment, all Gwen could see, all she could imagine, was Rhys’s bloodied corpse stretched out in Torchwood’s Autopsy Room. All she could remember was Bilis Manger taking Rhys from her. It would not happen again.

When she spoke, Gwen’s voice had lost all warmth, all humour. Instead she was cold. Colder than he’d ever heard her. ‘Rhys. Go home. No, no stay here. Stay out all day. Go to the pub. Call Daf, have him get pissed with you, but on no account go anywhere alone. You need a piss, Daf goes with you.’

‘Now hold on-’

And Gwen’s hand was on his, squeezing so hard she was almost crushing it. ‘Please. Trust me. Never be alone till I call you. Even if that means you don’t go home or go to work or do anything for a week.’

‘This is-’

‘Don’t say “bloody Torchwood”, Rhys. Seriously. This is big. I can’t explain, trust me.’

And Gwen turned the card over and read something Rhys hadn’t seen, written in neat, precise handwriting on the back.

Next time , it said.

Next time there’ll be nothing you can do, ‘ Widow’ Williams .

City Hall was an impressive array of buildings and, no matter how often Jack Harkness stood outside them, he couldn’t help but be impressed.

Coat flapping in the breeze, blue shirt, red braces, navy chinos, Jack was an imposing and strikingly attractive figure.

At least, that’s what he hoped the man he had come to visit would think. Still. It’d been a while. They’d not parted on the best of terms last time. Little things: Torchwood policy, words about trust and betrayal, antiques and a cold spaghetti bolognaise that had been slaved over for a good fifteen minutes led to bitter recriminations, name-calling and a bloody good bitch slap, of which Jack was the recipient.

Thinking about it, Jack touched his left cheek. It had been a good slap, and not what he’d’ve expected from someone so… unimposing.

Still, appearances could be deceptive. Wasn’t that what they said on Earth in this era? Oh, if they only knew the half of it.

He entered the building and, avoiding the tourist routes to the marble hall or the conference rooms, he nudged open an insignificant door to the right, which led to a concrete stairwell, peeling paint and dust on each step. No one regularly used the stairway, which is why Jack always liked it. A fast in and out.

But then, that was Jack through and through.

He kept going until he reached the fourth floor and eased open the doorway into a plushly carpeted hallway, a series of doors on either side, with a huge ornate one at the far end. Outside it was a small desk, and sat at that desk was a small, thin blond man in a suit and tie, probably half a size too big for him.

He had stunning blue eyes, and Jack briefly flirted with the idea of sneaking up on him and snogging him.

The man was reading a sheaf of notes and tapping with one hand on a PC keyboard.

Jack realised sneaking up wasn’t going to work. Not in the corridor. Shame.

‘I saw you come in, Jack,’ the young Welshman said. ‘And no one but you would use those stairs.’ He still hadn’t looked up.

‘Oh. Right. OK,’ said Jack. ‘How are you? It’s been a couple of years.’

‘It’s been twenty-two months, eight days and about nine hours, Jack. Lots of things could’ve happened to me in twenty-two months, eight days and about nine hours. Nice of you to ask now.’

Jack stood still. He still wasn’t being looked at. Boy, some people could hold a grudge.

‘Slapped anyone recently?’

The man dropped the notes onto his desk and finally gazed straight at Jack.

‘Oh, tried to feed anyone an amnesia pill in cold pasta recently?’

Ouch. Yup. Grudge time.

‘Oh come on, Idris. You gonna let that little… incident come between us?’

Idris Hopper stood up. He wasn’t as tall as Jack, but the Torchwood leader took a step back anyway – Idris was not happy to see Jack, that was clear.

‘You screwed with my head, Jack. On so many levels. You lied, you cheated. You betrayed me, my trust in you. And then you tried to poison me.’

‘It wasn’t poison. Don’t be so melodramatic. It was for your safety.’

Idris said nothing for a moment, then he strode past Jack and opened an office door.

‘Jan, I need to pop out for a few minutes. Can you keep an eye on the Mayor’s desk for me? Ta love. I’ll get you a donut.’

He then turned back, grabbed Jack’s arm and, with strength that belied his slight stature, almost dragged Jack back to the stairwell.

He slammed the door open and shoved Jack into the vestibule. Jack hit the wall with some force, turned to yell at Idris, and discovered the young secretary snogging him. Hard and ferociously.

After a few seconds, Idris pulled back, his eyes full of anything but love.