Gary Russell - The Twilight Streets

For Scott Handcock

He counted eighteen of them, on the platform in their neat little black or grey mackintoshes, caps on their heads, gas masks on their belts, some clutching rope-bound suitcases, some just satchels, a few others with nothing more than paper bags. All shared a big, wide-eyed expression, a mixture of trepidation, fear and bemusement. A few hours earlier, they’d been grouped at Paddington Station in London, saying bewildering goodbyes to parents and guardians, brothers and sisters, friends and strangers. Then they’d been bundled onto the steam train and delivered to Cardiff. To somewhere safer, away from the bombs.

Even Cardiff had its moments though. Just a few months back, part of Riverside – Neville Street if he remembered correctly – had gone in a German raid, so really nowhere was totally safe. Just safer than London.

At the top of the steps leading to the ticket hall below, a group of strangers moved forward as one, grabbing at the kids, pulling and pushing, checking names scrawled on manila labels. Every so often, a nametag would be recognised and the child claimed, separated from the others and bundled away. One by one the displaced evacuees were going down the stairs, to begin new lives, never knowing if they would go home again, or when the war would end.

Jack Harkness looked at his watch. ‘In about three and half years,’ he muttered to no one. And then he smiled. There was one kid on the platform, freckled, red-haired, gap-toothed, ears sticking out at absurd angles. A more caricatured evacuee he couldn’t believe existed.

He stepped forward to the boy, holding out a hand to reach for his nametag, but the boy stepped away.

‘Oo are you?’ the lad said.

Jack told him his name. ‘And you are?’ Jack got hold of the paper tag. ‘A NEIL.’ Jack frowned for a second, then laughed. ‘Oh, very droll. You guys.’

The boy cocked his head. ‘Gor blimey guv, leave it out, apples an’ pears, strewth, ’ow’s yer father?’

Jack shook his head slowly. ‘You don’t have a clue, do you. Cool accent though, give you that. You nailed it right down. Never quite got the East London one right, myself.’

‘Luvvaduck, mate, I ain’t got no clue as to wot on erff your sayin’, me old china.’

‘Yeah, whatever, “Neil”. Come on, we need to get you home.’

He took the ‘boy’ by the hand and led him down the steps, turning right to leave by the rear entrance.

They emerged into the August sunlight. Parked a few yards across the road was a sleek black Daimler. The driver’s door opened, and a grey-suited chauffeur stepped out, offering a salute. Jack waved it away.

‘None of that, Llinos,’ he said.

‘Ruddy Nora,’ said the boy, ‘you’re a bit of awright an’ no mistake.’

Llinos smiled and removed the chauffeur’s peaked cap, letting her long red hair cascade down her back. ‘Charmed,’ she said and opened the rear door for the boy to clamber in. Jack went in after him.

As Llinos got back into the driver’s seat and replaced her cap, Jack leaned forward and kissed the back of her neck. ‘The Hub, please, and don’t spare the horses.’

The Daimler eased forward, as Llinos reached down, plucked a Bakelite telephone receiver from the dashboard and passed it back to Jack.

‘Harkness,’ he said simply. Then, after a beat, ‘I see. That’s not my problem. You asked me to locate and identify him for you. Done that, delivering him to the Hub – then I’m out of here. There’s a party in the Butetown docks tonight with my name on it.’

He passed the phone back.

Llinos took it and replaced it without ever taking her eyes off the road, turning right into Bute Street towards the warehouses that littered the mud chutes by the basin, across from Tiger Bay.

After a few moments, the Daimler pulled up outside a row of Victorian buildings and Llinos emerged, opened the doors again and smiled at her passengers as she let them out.

Jack hadn’t let go of ‘Neil’ at any point, and he was virtually dragging him towards the warehouses, a determined grimace on his face.

He heard Llinos drive away to park the Daimler in the Square, round the corner. All those resources, and still no underground car park. One day, someone was going to steal that car and find it had a few little refurbishments that the average wartime Daimler didn’t have, and then there’d be hell to pay.

He rapped on the wooden door of Warehouse B, waited exactly eight seconds, and then rapped again.

The door opened almost immediately, and a uniformed young man – naval today, made a change – let them in.

‘Looking good, Rhydian,’ Jack winked at him.

The young Welshman adjusted his glasses, but said nothing, as always. He crossed to an iron-gated lift and yanked the door back. Jack and ‘Neil’ entered, and Rhydian closed the door behind them, pressing a button that sent them twenty feet beneath the surface of the Oval Basin.

Jack watched as the concreted shaft slowly went by and then blinked as the harsh lighting in the Hub greeted him. Enough electricity to power most of Cardiff, and luckily hidden from the surface – no leakage to draw German bombers’ attentions.

The lift door was wrenched open by one of the two personnel in the Hub, Greg Bishop. He smiled at Jack and then looked down at ‘Neil’.

Jack’s heart raced slightly at seeing Greg. It always did. He was dark-haired, blue-eyed (oh God, such beautiful eyes), cheekbones you could rest a coffee mug on and a toothy smile that had greeted Jack on more than one occasion as the sun rose.

Greg was the reason Jack did anything for Torchwood these days. And he was a damn good reason.

Behind Greg, a severe unsmiling woman raised her head from a big in-tray of documents. ‘You’re late,’ she said.

‘And good evening to you, Tilda,’ Jack said. He pushed ‘Neil’ before him. ‘Meet an alien. Or “A. Neil”, if you prefer. Torchwood London have such a perverse sense of humour.’

Tilda Brennan shrugged. ‘So? You’ve done your job. You can leave now, Mister Freelancer.’

Jack smiled at Greg. ‘Such charm, such a way with the guys.’ He gestured towards a contraption at the centre of the Hub. ‘Had a visit from Turing?’

Greg smiled back. ‘Called it a Bronze Goddess. Says you know what it’s to say thanks for.’

Jack nodded. ‘So, does it work?’

Tilda looked up at the machine. ‘Supposedly it’ll predict Rift occurrences. You’ll have to take it for granted, Harkness, that, as it’s tainted by your involvement, I neither like it nor trust its accuracy, reliability or usefulness.’ She looked back at Jack. ‘You still here?’

Jack ran his finger down Greg’s cheek. ‘What happens to Neil?’

‘Llinos will put it in the Vaults until we find out why it’s here and how to get it somewhere else.’ Greg looked at the alien. ‘Why didn’t Torchwood One want it?’

‘Dunno. I was just asked to get him to you guys. Job done. See you.’

And Jack turned away from the Hub, Torchwood Three and the alien. Then he turned back again.

‘Oh, and Tilda?’

‘Doctor Brennan to you.’

‘Whatever. I don’t want to find Neil over there turning up in a fisherman’s net in a week’s time. If I’d been willing to accept his execution, I would’ve left him to stay in London.’

Tilda Brennan sneered at him. ‘It’s alien rubbish, Harkness. Whether it lives or dies, gets dissected or just forgotten and frozen in the Morgue – all my decision, not yours. Now go.’

Just as Jack was about to leave, he heard a noise and looked at the alien.