And the lights in her eyes went as suddenly as they’d arrived – and Tilda’s concentration faltered for a second.
As her arm relaxed a fraction, she clearly realised her mistake.
Her finger began to pull the trigger and Jack had no choice.
The Webley retorted, twice, and Tilda’s head exploded.
Her dead finger continued on its trajectory and her pistol fired – uselessly into the wall as Greg fell backwards with Tilda’s body as she dropped.
Jack was at his side in a second, and the young man wrenched himself free of the woman and fell into Jack’s waiting arms, huge sobs racking his body.
Jack held him tight, rocking back and forth slightly, both of them in shock. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, but they only parted when the flame-haired Llinos put her head around the corner of the Vaults, pistol drawn.
She looked at Jack and Greg, and then took in Tilda Brennan’s body.
‘Check on Rhydian,’ Jack commanded, and Llinos ran away to find her comrade.
‘This,’ Jack whispered quietly into Greg’s ear, trying to lighten the mood, ‘is why I will never work full-time for Torchwood.’
Greg just looked up into Jack’s eyes and kissed him hard, their tongues finding each other’s mouths in passion, relief and savage gratitude.
They parted after a few moments, and Jack checked Greg’s arm.
‘She tricked me,’ Greg said quietly. ‘I found the alien like that, objected, and she said someone must be in the Hub. As I went to get a weapon, she jumped me. I was surprised, she’d done my arm in before I could react. I’m sorry.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Sorry, my ass. You’ve got nothing to apologise for – but you need to let Torchwood London know something took her over, possessed her.’
‘From the alien?’ asked Greg, pointing with his good arm at the dissected ‘Neil’.
Jack considered this, but something about that explanation didn’t ring true.
Greg reached out for the diary Tilda had dropped and drew it towards him, as Jack propped him up against the wall of the nearest cell door.
Llinos and Rhydian came in, both alert, ready for anything, despite their recent unconsciousness.
This was a good team, Jack thought. They deserved better than Tilda Brennan’s betrayal, possessed or not.
He’d always had doubts about her.
Rhydian grabbed a blanket from one of the cells, draping it over Tilda’s body as Llinos and Greg flicked through the diary.
‘Rhydian, painkillers for Greg’s arm, now.’
‘Yes sir,’ the young officer replied and headed back out.
Greg was frowning, and not with the pain or shock.
‘What’s up?’ Jack asked.
Greg held the diary up. The double-page spread was blank.
‘They’re all like that,’ Llinos said. ‘It’s an empty book.’ She stood up and looked at Jack. ‘What do you think?’
‘Hey, don’t ask me,’ he said.
And they both turned as Greg swore.
A white light, roughly Greg-shaped, surrounded him.
Jack reached forward, but suddenly his guts seemed to be on fire – the same feeling he’d felt at Tretarri.
He hit the floor in a second, hearing his own voice yelling in fury, as Greg vanished with one final scream of pain, and the bright light flared and winked out.
‘Greg!’ Llinos shouted pointlessly.
Jack was staring, not where Greg had been, but at the diary.
In flame-orange letters, scored across the previously blank pages were words:
REVENGE, JACK. REVENGE FOR THE FUTURE.
And then the diary erupted into flame and would have been ash in seconds if Llinos hadn’t stamped on it and put the fire out.
‘Did… did you see that?’ Llinos asked, reaching down for the charred book.
Jack nodded dumbly. Greg had been taken. In revenge. For something Jack hadn’t done. Yet.
THREE
‘What about this one, Susi?’
Susan Sharma took the flyer from Jan Arwyn’s out-tray and glanced down at it. ‘No, don’t think so, that’s a single clown doing kiddie parties.’ She looked across at the girls in the office. It was a big open-plan office; it had originally had loads of walls, but they’d been demolished a few years back to create a ‘workspace environment’. It housed about twelve of them, here at City Hall, trying to keep the Mayor and his staff happy and administered.
But not financed. Oh no, Finance were on another floor. They had carpets. And walls. And a kitchen to themselves.
They all hated Finance down here in Admin.
‘We need to book a big group, right?’ Susi said, remembering the task at hand. ‘It’s expensive if we go for lots of solos and smaller groups, and the Mayor’s lot will have heart attacks if we spend too much. It’s just got to be enough to fill the streets.’ She smiled at Jan. ‘Sorry, love, keep looking.’
Jan pointed at the memo pinned to the wall. ‘We haven’t got long though, have we? I mean, the Office want it sorted by tonight.’
Susi sighed. ‘I know. How difficult is it to find people? I can’t believe it.’
‘What exactly do you need?’ asked Tom, the water-cooler guy, as he wandered over with two empty containers. ‘And can I just say, you lot don’t half get through this stuff.’
Jan smiled at Tom – Susi thought she quite liked him. Awww.
‘You ever seen that Derren Brown bloke? Or David Blaine, when he was good? All that misdirection, card-tricks, word-play? That sort of thing. But about twenty of them. And some clowns, and those awful statue people-’
‘Awful what?’
‘Oh you know,’ Susi said. ‘Those weirdoes that paint themselves silver and pretend to be angels or Charlie Chaplin. Then they move suddenly, and sixty kids wee themselves on the spot.’
‘Oh,’ said Tom. ‘Can’t help you there. But my mate’s a clown – on so many levels, I say – and he’d do it. Free, I reckon, cos he’s starting out.’
Jan looked up at Susi. ‘Free? I like free. Free is good.’
‘So if Tom can give us a clown, and there’s that guy with the dancing dog…’
Even as she said it, she could picture the Mayor’s face. Well, the Mayor’s secretary’s face actually – Susi couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually spoken to the Mayor himself.
The secretary would look at her in that waspish way he always did and repeat slowly ‘the dancing dog…’
And he’d be right. This was going to be a disaster.
‘What we really need – no disrespect to your friend, Tom – is one company that can supply the lot,’ she said. ‘Street Parties R Us.’
God, Susi thought, maybe she should set that up herself. It’d get her out of this dead-end job. She’d make a fortune, all those posh families in Roath in the summer…
She was distracted suddenly when a motorcycle courier walked in, helmet on.
Before she had a chance to ask him to remove it (why hadn’t reception done that? Indeed, why was the courier up here anyway?), he held out an envelope.
‘Susan Sharma?’ he said, muffled by the helmet.
‘That’s me,’ Susi took the envelope and started to open it. She looked up to say thanks, but the courier was gone.
‘Wonder what he looked like under that leather,’ Jan giggled to one of the other girls. ‘Looked good with it on! How tight were those leather trousers?’
The other girl nodded. ‘You couldn’t just see he was a big boy, you could guess his religion!!’
They burst into cackles of laughter.
Tom, sensing he was no longer the centre of Jan’s world, coughed and wandered out, managing to crash one of the empty water containers into the door, making his exit as undignified as possible.