Andy Lane - Slow Decay (Torchwood)

TORCHWOOD

SLOW DECAY

Andy Lane

Contents

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Epub ISBN 9781409073857

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Published in 2007 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing.

Ebury Publishing is a division of the Random House Group Ltd.

Andy Lane 2007

Andy Land has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

Original series broadcast on BBC Television
Format BBC 2005
Torchwood and the Torchwood logo are trademarks of the British Broadcasting corporation and are used under licence.

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ISBN 978 1846 074714

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Torchwood is a BBC Wales production for BBC Three Executive Producers: Russell T Davies and Julie Gardner Producer: Richard Stokes

Project Editor: Steve Tribe
Production Controller: Peter Hunt

Cover design by Lee Binding @ Tea Lady BBC 2007
Typeset in Albertina and Century Gothic
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To Dave, Alison and Jamie Trace ,
for providing me with a Hub of my own in Plymouth
And dedicated to the memory of Craig Hinton
best friend and best man

Also available in the Torchwood series:

ANOTHER LIFE
by Peter Anghelides

BORDER PRINCES
by Dan Abnett

ONE

The sky was taking on the appearance of an old bruise as the sun slipped inevitably toward the Cardiff skyline. Yellows and purples were layered across it, each sliding into the other in a cascade of disturbed colour, like an Edvard Munch painting. Lights were beginning to come on across the city, in buildings and on streets, gradually replacing the actual city with a pointillist copy of itself.

The top of the tower block where Gwen stood was covered in weeds, moss and grass. The vegetation had drifted up, in seed or spore form, from the countryside beyond Cardiffs suburbs. From where she stood, by the top of the stairway that led down towards street level and the rational world below, the far edge of the building was an impossibly straight cliff edge and the man standing there was poised on the edge of the void, coat eddying around him in the breeze like wings. Ready to fall or to fly.

Where can I get a coat like that? she asked.

You have to earn it, Captain Jack Harkness said without turning around. Its a badge of office. Like bowler hats in the Civil Service.

They dont still wear bowler hats in the Civil Service, she replied scornfully. That went out back in the 1950s, along with tea trolleys and waistcoats. And I speak as someone who worked alongside loads of Civil Servants when I was in the police force. She caught herself. I mean, when I was really in the police force, not just telling people that Im in the police force to avoid having to tell them that I hunt down alien technology for a living.

I bet they still wear them, Jack said. The wind ruffled his hair like a playful hand. I bet when all the Civil Servants arrive in their offices in the morning they lock the doors, unlock their desks and take out their ceremonial bowler hats to wear where nobody else can see them. Like a kind of administrative version of the Klu Klux Klan.

Have you got some kind of downer on the Civil Service?

He still didnt turn around. In an infinite universe, he said, there are undoubtedly planets out there where the entire population has grey skin, wears grey clothes and thinks grey thoughts. I guess the universe needs planets like that, but I sure as hell dont want to have to visit them. I prefer the thought that if theres a planet of Civil Servants then theres also a planet where everyone has an organic TV set built into their back, and you can just follow people down the street, watching daytime TV to your hearts content.

The colour was slowly bleeding from the sky in front of Jack Harkness: yellows dissolving into oranges, oranges melting into reds, and everything dripping from the sky, sliding off the back of the night and leaving velvet darkness behind.

Gwen gazed at Jacks back, trying once again to try and separate out the complex mess of feelings she felt for this man. When he talked about Civil Servants wearing bowler hats, it was almost as if he had only recently seen them. When he talked about alien planets, she could almost believe that hed been to them. Almost. But that would have been mad. Wouldnt it?

She wondered, not for the first time, how her life had managed to take such a right-angled turn without any warning. One day she was taking statements and guarding crime scenes whilst technicians in overalls scraped evidence up into plastic bags, and the next she was part of Great Britains first and last line of defence against what? Invasion. Incursion. Infiltration. A whole bag full of words beginning with In, because thats where things were coming. In to her reality. In to Cardiff.

And it was all because of this man standing on the edge of a roof twelve storeys above the ground. This man who had arrived in her life like a flash flood, drowning her in strangeness and adventure.

Impulsive. Impressive. Impossible. A whole dictionary of words beginning with Im.

Most people spend their time looking up, she said eventually, looking at the stars. You seem to spend far too much time looking down. What are you looking for, exactly?

Perhaps Im looking for fallen stars, he said after a moment.

Its the people, isnt it? You just cant help watching them. She caught herself. No, thats not it. Youre not watching them; youre watching over them.

Ever seen a two-year-old tottering around a garden? he said softly, without turning around. There might be poison ivy, or rose bushes, or hawthorn around the edges. There might be spades or secateurs lying on the lawn. The kid doesnt care. He just wants to play with all those brightly coloured things he sees. To him, the world is a safe place. And you might want to rush out and cut back all those sharp, spiky plants so they cant hurt him, and you might want to clear away all those dangerous tools just in case he picks them up and cuts himself on them, but you know you shouldnt, because if you keep doing that then he will either grow up thinking the world can never hurt him, or he might go the other way and think that everything is dangerous and he should never go far from your side. So you just watch. And wait. And, if he does get a rash from the poison ivy, or if he does cut his finger off with the secateurs, then you get him to hospital as quickly as you can, in the reasonably sure knowledge that hell never make that mistake again.