The old man shrugged. ‘Strange, isn’t it? Torchwood is so rarely closed for business, but I saw Mr Harkness about half an hour ago, heading into the City Centre. I doubt he’ll be long.’ He pointed at the padlocked bar. ‘Perhaps this is a new security measure. That Ianto Jones fellow can be such a stickler for detail.’
Idris shrugged. ‘Yeah, guess so. Sorry, did you say “Torchwood”? What’s that then? Is that the new name for the Tourist Board?’ Idris pointed at the stylised red dragon symbol on the small sign that read Croeso Cymru. ‘Never learned much Welsh at school. Wrong generation.’
The older Englishman just smiled. ‘So few people around here seem proud of their rich heritage, Mr…?’
‘Oh sorry.’ Idris offered his hand. ‘Hopper. Idris Hopper. I work for the Council. So, probably should know Welsh, but you’d be surprised how easy it is to get by with the odd shwmae, os gwelwch yn dda, diolch, hwyl or nos da!’
The old man nodded, understandingly. ‘I have never spoken a word of Welsh either.’
Suddenly, Mermaid Quay was plunged into darkness, and there were surprised cries and yells from the people in the bars and restaurants.
Idris looked around, where had the old man gone?
Out of Idris’s eyeline, something glowed a sort of purple in the sky – perhaps the columns of light that decorated the Oval Basin by the water tower were run independently.
Then life returned to the Bayside, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
As the bulb-lights around the jetties and decking spluttered back into life, Idris realised the old man was suddenly back again, uncomfortably close to his face.
Idris took a step back and was now pressed against the locked door.
‘In fact,’ the old man said as if nothing had happened, ‘I shall be seeing Mr Harkness tomorrow. We have an… appointment. May I give him a message?’
Idris thought for a second and then smiled. ‘God, you are a lifesaver.’ He unslung his record bag and pulled out a sheaf of handwritten notes and a huge envelope. He then whipped out a pen and a set of Post-Its notes and scribbled a message down for Jack, attached them to the papers and shoved the pages into the envelope. He sealed the envelope, wrote Jack’s name on the front, added ‘By Hand Via Kindly Old Chum’ in the corner and handed it to the man.
The old man smiled at the envelope. ‘“Kindly Old Chum” is a phrase I shall treasure, Mr Hopper.’
Idris offered his hand, but the man didn’t take it. Instead he just bowed slightly.
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Hopper. And good luck in Berlin.’
By the time Idris had registered that last comment, the man had vanished.
EIGHTEEN
It was a lovely morning. Simply delightful. No one in the world could have complained. The sun was out, the sky was blue with white fluffy clouds, and there was a tiny breeze in the air, but not enough to stop the general dress being T-shirts or halter tops.
Mums with kids in pushchairs and buggies, dads with older kids on their shoulders, teenagers and groups of pensioners all jostled on the roads of Tretarri, excited by this bizarre relaunch of a series of streets. Many arrived carrying the flyers that had been handed out around the city over the past twenty-four hours, detailing the clowns, magicians and street entertainers that would be present. Each flyer had a coupon that entitled the bearer to a can of drink each for their family (no more than four) at a discount rate. Light Lite it was called, guaranteed good for the kids.
The grand opening of the area had been at midday that morning. Jack had been there since 10 o’clock. Waiting. Watching. Wondering who, or what, would make a move.
The Wurlitzer had been the first thing to start up, sending out that irritating hurdy-gurdy music. Then the street performers had arrived, although Jack hadn’t noticed where they’d come from. The houses? No doors were open.
Light Lite. He had picked up a discarded can earlier. The lights in the Rift last night. Greg talking about the Light and Dark. It all had to be connected somehow, he was sure of that, and all roads led to Tretarri.
The other thing that had occurred to him atop Stadium House the night before was that Tretarri might not be the casual annoyance he’d thought. Jack had been around for… well, centuries was not really an exaggeration. At around 150 years old, he’d seen a lot, remembered a lot (hell, he’d probably done a lot and what he hadn’t done wasn’t worth doing), and he was cross with himself for not recognising a trap when he saw one.
This was an elaborate ruse – had been ever since he’d first seen Tretarri back in 1902. Each time he’d come, the nausea had got stronger, a fact that hadn’t really seemed important until now, but it was all leading somewhere, leading here. To now. Because Jack was an expert and could recognise a good party when he saw one. And this was the granddaddy of them all. All it needed was a host.
Where was Bilis Manger?
And where were his team? His friends?
Revenge for the Future.
What the hell was going to happen in the future?
Mind you, futures were fluid things. Time always was – what you knew the future to be one day could be completely revoked when you next visited it. Like a river, ebbing back and forth, tiny ripples. The general shape of the big pond never changed but the detail of the ripples, the direction and mass, all that could be altered by the splash of a hand. Or the addition of a fish.
So, if his inability to access Tretarri was deliberate, and something was growing more powerful as time went by, there would have to be a point when the trap was sprung.
For that to happen, Jack would have to be given access to the streets.
He stared around him. The pavement-embedded uplighters were on, even though it was the middle of the day. The street lamps were on, too. Someone’s carbon footprint wasn’t making an indentation on their conscience. The lights in every house were on. But still no one was going in or out, the focus of the party atmosphere was external.
A clown was looking at him. Staring blankly, as if not quite seeing him. That was odd.
There was something about the way it was standing, head at a slight angle, the mouth beneath the big red painted lips.
God, no.
‘Owen?’
Jack was walking across the road towards Tretarri, ignoring the nausea rising in his gut, fighting it down.
The clown he thought was Owen was caught up in a throng of children and, with a honk on a horn, it vanished, swept away by a sea of screaming, laughing kids.
Jack took a deep breath. Step by step.
One foot forward.
Owen. He had to get to Owen.
Another foot forward.
Jeez, he felt rank, could taste the bile.
If Owen was here, then maybe Toshiko, Gwen and Ianto were, too.
Another step.
Ianto!
The young man was standing outside 6 Coburg Street. Jack could see him. Staring away, Jack could only see one side of him. Could he catch his eye?
‘Ianto,’ he yelled.
A group of people turned and looked at Jack and then over at the man he was clearly yelling at, who gave no response. A little girl broke away from her family and ran to Ianto, pulling at his sleeve. Just enough to ease Ianto round to face Jack.
The right-hand side of his face was half clown make-up.
Why only half, Jack wondered. Owen was a complete clown (in so many ways, he thought wryly). Ianto was still in his suit. Why.
And Ianto in trouble, in possible pain, was enough for Jack. Enough to overcome the nausea, the sickness, the bile. For the first time in his life, he was capable of marching into Tretarri, past the crowds, the street performers, everyone. Until he reached Ianto.