The Twilight Streets - By Gary Russell Page 0,1

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.

‘Fank you,’ it said. ‘An’ I look forward to our next meeting. Innit.’

This surprised Jack. Not just the gratitude, or the suggestion they’d meet again, but the fact it had spoken such a long sentence, and one that made sense.

‘Sure thing,’ he said, giving a tap on the side of his head with a finger, then out, by way of a salute.

And he left Torchwood Cardiff, or Torchwood Three as it now called itself, and went back out into the cold Welsh night air.

He stood on the dockside, looking first out across the water, then back across the mudflats that formed the Oval Basin. One day, all this land would be reclaimed, redeveloped, become a thriving modern area of shops, apartments and tourism. And there, right there, by that big drain, would be a water tower, a sculpture; and a machine would be there for a short while and would create a permanent rent in the Rift that crossed Cardiff. Then, once in a blue moon, the thing Jack was waiting patiently for (well, OK, not that patiently) would materialise and he’d get away from Wales. From Earth. Back out amongst the stars, back out where he belonged…

Except, damn it, he actually felt drawn to Cardiff now. How easily he’d come to call this place home.

Pulling his long coat around him to keep out the chill, he wandered away from the water, out towards Butetown and the small area beyond known as Tretarri.

No railyard,