‘Yeah. I just wish more people tried your approach. So much more fun than waving around weapons.’
‘Really?’ Jon kissed Jack. The kiss was perfect. ‘But you’re such a skilled diplomat. And we don’t have any guns.’
Jack felt Jon move away from him, and started to laugh. ‘Hey guys. Don’t think I’m not extraordinarily grateful.’ He smiled, dreamily, and just enjoyed himself for a while. ‘I hate to ruin the moment, but just a reminder. It ain’t gonna stop me having a good time, but if you let me down, I won’t hesitate in coming back here guns blazing.’
Brendan laughed, pleasantly, and moved up the bed to wrap his arms around Jack’s shoulders. ‘How evil would we have to be just to get you to come back?’
Jack beamed. ‘Oh, barely evil at all. Just a little naughty. But remember – you start hurting people, and, charming as you are, fun as this is, and …. absolutely great as that is, Jon – it’s not gonna stop me blowing you away.’
Jon laughed.
Jack smirked. ‘Howabout, I love it when a plan comes together?’
A year later…
Jack bumped into them at Cardiff Gay Pride. He was covered in mud and a scrap of blood-spattered gingham.
Brendan and Jon stood underneath a gold umbrella, watching the downpour. They were just wearing tight jeans and body paint. They waved to him.
‘Hey, guys,’ said Jack. ‘I’d love to stop and chat, but… you know… alien menace.’
‘Grr!’ they both mimed claws.
‘Yeah. Exactly. Lots of tentacles, big gun, gingham dress. Seen it?’
They shook their heads.
‘So, how are you?’ asked Brendan.
Jack shrugged. ‘Keepin’ busy. Saving the world. You?’
‘So-so,’ said Jon. ‘Look around you – we’ve already improved the hair.’
‘That was you?’ laughed Jack. ‘Way to go, guys.’
‘The last mullet moved to Swansea the other week. We had a party. Lasted a few days.’
‘Few other things – you know. Stern words with innocent boys down from Treorchy for the weekend. You know – always use a jonny, and no, a Mars Bar wrapper’s not a substitute. The STD clinic’s dead chuffed. Talked about giving us a plaque, which was sweet. Plus, by just being ourselves, I think we’ve been a good influence.’
‘Yeah,’ said Brendan. ‘People have finally stopped wearing plaid. And I’m doing some great work with the Assembly.’
‘I’m impressed,’ said Jack.
‘Care to show us?’ asked Brendan, raising an eyebrow. If anything they’d got prettier. Something even more striking about his cheekbones. And. Oh. Monster. Right.
Jack looked over, reluctantly, to the main stage. He could hear roaring and a few screams. ‘I’d love to. Maybe later?’
Brendan and Jon followed his glance to where Cardiff’s queen of song stood, drenched as usual, belting out ‘Delilah’ over a sodden PA. There was a flash of gingham and a tentacle backstage. Over the rain, Jack could just hear the sound of automatic gunfire. As he watched, Owen backed onto the stage, desperately aiming a flamethrower into the wings. He became gradually aware of the crowd, and grinned sheepishly, dropping into the kind of guilty creep that he’d seen roadies use. He paused and winked at the singer, who somehow carried on singing despite Owen aiming a jet of flame into the lighting rig. A large, charred tentacle flopped onto the stage next to them, and lay there, flailing and smoking.
Jon applauded, ironically. ‘That boy’s got to be one of yours,’ he smirked. ‘Torchwood are never throwing me a surprise birthday.’
Brendan leaned in and kissed Jack quickly. ‘Go!’ he urged. ‘Save Charlotte Church. We’ll be around tonight. We’re having a White Party.’
Jack saluted and ran off.
And two years later, Jack found himself back at the club where it all began…
CAPTAIN JACK HAS KILLED THE WABBIT, KILLED THE WABBIT
Jack made his way slowly across the dance floor. Partly because it was packed. Partly because it was packed with strikingly attractive, topless men. On the one hand, he wore a look of grim determination. On the other, it seemed like a good party.
A particularly muscled guy with a big grin wrapped himself around Jack and started to dance against him slowly. He drew himself close to Jack, and Jack leaned slowly in and whispered quietly in his ear. ‘Not right now,’ he said, and moved on.
All around him was disco. Surprisingly good disco. When you’ve lived through the twentieth century a few times over, you’ll go to a lot of parties. Most of them a bit rubbish, really. When you come down to it, it’s all a mixture of sex, chemicals, fancy hair, loud music, dry ice and, in the 1970s, roller skates.
For a large chunk of the twentieth century, Jack hadn’t been drinking, and he’d never got the hang of roller skates. But he still fancied he knew how to twist up a rug, and this seemed pretty, well… A few parties stood out. He’d gone to the Cavern Club in Liverpool in the early 1960s to hear The Beatles’ first-ever concert. Not so much cos he liked the music, but just in case He turned up. He never could resist a spot of showy nostalgia. Actually, He hadn’t, but Jack had still had a surprisingly good time with a party of student nurses in Biba skirts.
Then there was that lost weekend in the Weimar Republic in the 1930s. Berlin loved to party, and those Germans – they really loved a man in uniform. He’d been supposed to be investigating rumours of trafficking in Alien Artefacts by some leading National Socialists, but had got distracted by… well, everything really. About the only thing he remembered was the look when he’d handed in his expenses claim.
Oh, and that party in an enormous warehouse in Docklands, way before it got redeveloped. Back then it was just an enormous shed of noise, with people draped across the stairs. The host lived in a greenhouse in the middle of the second floor and made weird films. The warehouse was breathtakingly cold and filthy, but everyone looked amazing. The music was bizarre, and every single mattress was crowded with beautiful people. Oh, and there had been cheese-on-sticks and fireworks along the Thames.
And then there was this. Someone had repainted the entire club a burning white, the walls glowing with the heat from the lights. The floor itself blazed with light, the entire club both full of shadows and yet having no shadow. The bar was a long plate of shining glass, with mirrors behind it, floating somehow above the dance floor. Tables of polished steel leaned against mirrored columns of solid light. Everything was bright and burned and the noise flowed up and around. Even the dry ice appeared to be glitter, floating around everyone like dusk in summer.
Jack made his way to the bar, and enjoyed the spectacle. Everyone was young, they were thin, they were pretty and happy. No one seemed drunk, just blissful. And nearly everyone was dancing.
He saw Brendan over in the DJ booth. He was standing there, just wearing a pair of combats and some headphones. His blond hair was flowing effortlessly free. He waved towards Jack, and Jack walked over.
‘It’s been a while!’ Brendan said, his normal voice somehow making itself heard over the crowd.
‘There’s been no need,’ replied Jack.
‘Forgive the appearance. I’m just dressed down tonight. You know how it is. Fancied a spot of DJ-ing. After all, everyone loves a DJ.’ He winked. ‘Let’s go upstairs and get a drink with Jon.’ He reached out of the booth and tapped a student wearing speedos and a snake tattoo. The boy turned and looked at Brendan and smiled. Brendan leaned down and stroked his arm. The boy stepped forward and they kissed in the booth. Brendan leaned away. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Eric.’