The Twilight Streets

EIGHT

Rhys Williams was at a table in the café at the end of the arcade, looking over at the new shopping development nearing completion opposite.

Apparently, Cardiff needed more shops.

He noticed that no one seemed to have considered that lorries would have a hard time getting down the slim roadways. Oh well, perhaps they’d sort that out later.

Things you think about when you run a fleet of delivery trucks.

He glanced at his watch and at the cold coffee opposite him. Every time they arranged to meet, he’d buy Gwen a coffee in the vain hope that it would somehow magically cause her to turn up at the agreed time. It never worked.

But he didn’t mind. They were getting married soon. She had said yes. YES! To marrying him! How bloody brilliant was that!

‘Daf, she said yes!’ he’d said triumphantly to one of his drinking buddies the day after.

‘Hey, Banana, how’s Lanzarote? I got some news, mate,’ he’d said to another on the phone.

‘Mam, it’s Rhys. I got some news for you. Great news. Well, I think it’s great news. Well, it’s great for me. No, I told you, I won’t know about the job for a couple of weeks. No… no, will you listen… Look, you better sit down then… No, I’ve not had an accident, Jesus, will you let me speak?’ That one had gone a bit downhill, truth be told.

And today, he and Gwen were going to agree on a venue. Well, he suspected he was going to be told what the venue was. And who was coming. And what he was wearing.

And you know what, that was fine. Because he was marrying the most fantastic woman in the world and, so long as she had the wedding she wanted, that was good enough for him!

So long as bloody Torchwood didn’t get in the way – oh God, maybe that’s why she was late. Maybe Jack bloody Harkness, aka God, had told her she couldn’t have the day off.

Did Torchwood even do days off?

He never asked her that. Somehow the idea of Handsome Jack signing leave forms appealed to Rhys.

‘Excuse me, it’s Rhys Williams isn’t it?’

Rhys looked up at the old guy stood beside him. Smart dresser, bit… you know, fey, his mam would say. Maybe it was the voice.

‘Umm, yeah?’

‘You look well. Better than the last time I saw you.’

‘Have we met?’

‘You might say that. Once upon a time, in a different life.’ The old man produced a business card.

Rhys read the name and shrugged. ‘Sorry mate…’

‘That’s quite all right. I’m… a friend of Gwen’s. I gather congratulations are in order.’

Rhys grinned. ‘Thanks very much.’

The old man grinned too. ‘I just wanted to say how nice it is to meet you properly, and I hope you have a long, happy life.’ And the smile was gone. ‘Because the price paid for you to have this one was terribly high.’

And Rhys felt a bit awkward. Was this guy a loony? Did he really know Gwen?

Oh, he could ask her, there she was.

‘God Rhys, I’m really, really sorry,’ she said, coming through the door and heading to the seat.

Rhys turned to present the old man, but he was gone.

‘That’s odd,’ he muttered. ‘There was a scary man here, wanted to say hi.’

‘Who was he?’

‘I dunno. Knew me though. And you. Said he was a mate of yours.’

Gwen looked around the crowd in the café, looking for someone she knew.

‘He said some strange things,’ Rhys finished. ‘Oh, and he left you his card.’

Gwen took the card and Rhys saw the colour drain from her face.

‘You OK, love?’

For a moment, all Gwen could see, all she could imagine, was Rhys’s bloodied corpse stretched out in Torchwood’s Autopsy Room. All she could remember was Bilis Manger taking Rhys from her. It would not happen again.

When she spoke, Gwen’s voice had lost all warmth, all humour. Instead she was cold. Colder than he’d ever heard her. ‘Rhys. Go home. No, no stay here. Stay out all day. Go to the pub. Call Daf, have him get pissed with you, but on no account go anywhere alone. You need a piss, Daf goes with you.’

‘Now hold on-’

And Gwen’s hand was on his, squeezing so hard she was almost crushing it. ‘Please. Trust me. Never be alone till I call you. Even if that means you don’t go home or go to work or do anything for a week.’

‘This is-’

‘Don’t say “bloody Torchwood”, Rhys. Seriously. This is big. I can’t explain, trust me.’

And Gwen turned the card over and read something Rhys hadn’t seen, written in neat, precise handwriting on the back.

Next time, it said.

Next time there’ll be nothing you can do, ‘ Widow’ Williams.