Gary Russell - The Twilight Streets

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.

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.