FIFTEEN

It had been a matter of some determination on Alexander's part not to worry about anyone else in life. It wasn't just that he was a misanthropic old git – though that was certainly the case – it was that being, quite literally, an illegal alien in the arse-end of one of the more unattractive and unenlightened galaxies was hard enough without bringing the sensibilities of others into it. Put simply: he had enough on his plate. Which is why it irritated him that he couldn't stop wondering what Jack was up to. He had been hired to poke Torchwood's stiffs (and positively crisp in the case of Gloria Banks) and the rest of their business was most certainly none of his.

Still, the situation was rather intriguing. Albeit, he had concluded, not in the biological sense. The two humans had died through rather self-evident causes: one had choked and one had burned. The interest lay in how either of those things was possible. It was infuriating to be teased by these unusual circumstances and yet play no deductive part in them. He was Mrs Hudson to Captain Jack's Holmes. How despicable. Alexander couldn't abide the thought of being a bit part in anyone's drama.

He would join in their investigation, and to hell with their opinions on the matter. He spun his wheelchair around and looked up the flight of metal stairs.

Just as soon as he figured out a way of leaving the building.

Rob heard the sound of Julia screaming and was determined to run to her aid. If only he could move.

What was happening to him? He was struggling to recognise himself any more. The reflection in the kitchen window was the portrait of someone he knew, a decent man he was sure, a kind and gentle man, one who loved his wife and would never do anything to harm her. Someone not at all like him. How he wished he could make the pressure in his head go away. All he needed was peace and quiet. A little time on his own.

Of course, it would help if that silly bitch upstairs could just stop screaming.

He heard the woman – Gwen had they called her? – run upstairs. Taking the opportunity to move while nobody would notice him, he slipped out of the kitchen, opened the under-stairs cupboard and climbed inside.

He sat down on a box of old newspapers and sniffed the reassuring odour of old ink and dusty wood, the scent of carpet and damp and age. It was a quiet smell, a relaxing smell. He shoved his fingers into his ears and tried to ignore the thumping of feet above him, the frantic toing and froing of those determined to break his calm.

Julia was terrified and yet determined to stand up for herself. The last couple of days had seen her lose a sense of strength that she had spent most of her life trying to build. Bit by bit it had been chipped away until she was close to being struck insensible by her fears. It had to stop.

She stared at the fat man over Jack's shoulder, taking in the details of him for the first time. His features fought for space in the middle of his face: piggy eyes, button nose, puckered mouth, all surrounded by a sweating pink tyre of skin. The sweat soaked into his suit, dark brush strokes that painted out the brown pinstripes. He rippled in his taut clothing, reaching out with arms that seemed as wide and meaty as carcasses lifted from abattoir hooks. He'd punched Jack in the back before grabbing his head like a ball he planned to throw a very long way.

'Run,' Jack had said, and she had, shouting to the others downstairs and then running through to the main bedroom where Rob had left his toolkit. She grabbed the best weapon she could find, a long-barrelled screwdriver, and – reminding herself over and over again that if a man was solid enough to hurt others he was solid enough to be hurt – ran back to the spare bedroom. She found his solidity strangely reassuring; he had been far more unnerving to her when she had believed him insubstantial.

He threw Jack to the floor and Julia barked her anger as she saw him stamp on the back of his head. Someone was running up the stairs behind her, but she was determined to stake a claim on this moment, to snatch back a little of that strength before it was beaten out of her completely.

She thrust the screwdriver at the bloated face, unable to maintain her grip as the tip dived into the cave of his mouth and his teeth grazed her knuckles. It seemed he wished to eat the screwdriver as he had done so much else.

He vanished, just like the woman in the bath – spluttered a few bubbles of blood onto her outstretched hand and then was gone.

'Julia?' Gwen burst through the doorway behind her.

'I'm all right,' Julia replied, trying to hold on to that fragile wave of confidence she had just felt, the sight of Jack's head robbing her of it as she looked at his flattened, damp hair. 'But he's...'

Jack's body suddenly thrashed, and he rolled over with a yell of pain.

'Please tell me he didn't give me a bald patch!' he shouted.

Julia gave a shriek of surprise and fell backwards, Jack rushing to grab hold of her.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Remember what I said about magic?' She nodded. 'Good, because I'm the smooth-talking, cool-walking living embodiment of Clarke's third law!' He grinned and gave her peck on the cheek. 'Now what say we get on with getting those cameras rigged?'

It was at the highest point of the winch, suspended some four or five metres above the Autopsy Room, the hoist chain wrapped around the arms and legs of his wheelchair, that Alexander began to wonder whether this hadn't been a rather stupid idea.

Rob, listening to the banging and crashing upstairs, reached for the catch on the under-stairs door in a moment of confusion. Shouldn't he be out there helping? Making sure Julia was all right? Then the pain in his head began to return, a pulsing in his temples as if something was rupturing just to the side of his eye. He stuck his hand out for support, gripping the shaft of the taped-up croquet mallet and squeezing it as hard as he could, as if that would somehow transfer the pain from his head to the wood.

The momentum of Alexander's swing over the gantry railing was enough to drag the length of chain out of the winch and leave it trailing behind him like an enthusiastic millipede. If it hadn't been for his collision with some metal shelving, his injuries could have been much worse. He swore as he toppled forwards, following the shelves and the junk on them, leaving his wheelchair far behind.

'Stupid bloody Torchwood,' he muttered, wincing as he felt something cut into him where he had landed on it. Pulling what appeared to be a crab made of iron ore out of his side, he flung it at the pteranodon in case that insistent cawing it made was laughter. 'Shut up or I'll extinct you,' he threatened, pulling himself back into his chair and making for the one of the desks. Now... where had they gone?

Julia needed Rob. Captain Jack's gleeful lack of concern for the laws of physics was all very well – and reassuring in its own way – but she wanted her husband alongside her. She hadn't seen him for a while; he'd stormed off in a sulk while Jack had been sorting out the cabling in the dining room, and Julia had been inclined to leave him to it, given his mood. Enough now, though. Where was he?

She was scrubbing the back of her hand with a nail brush. Although there was no sign of any blood on the inflamed skin, she was finding it hard to imagine it could ever be clean.

'Don't go to the loo from now on without drawing the shower curtain,' said Jack behind her. He was standing in the bath, a small camera fixed to the tiles behind him. 'It'll cover up the lens.'

Julia nodded and carried on rubbing at her hand.

'That's enough now,' Jack said, stepping out of the bath, taking her hand and rubbing it gently between his own. 'The blood's gone.'

Julia felt tears in her eyes, and she bit her lip. She was determined not to give in to that any more. 'It might be commonplace to you,' she muttered, 'but I don't normally go around shoving tools in people's mouths.'

There was an awkward pause at that and then, despite herself, she burst into hysterics. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'That came out so wrong... I wasn't having a pop about you being, you know...'

'He prefers the term "omnisexual",' said Ianto, stepping into the room. 'It's the polite way of saying he'll sleep with anything – men, women... cephalopods. I must be the only boyfriend that's ever had to get jealous in a fishmongers.'

'Don't knock the sensual embrace of the tentacle,' Jack replied with a wink.

'Oh God...' Ianto replied. 'I could have died happy had I never heard you say that. Changing the subject – cos one of us has to before someone throws up – I've disconnected four monitors, the amp and a couple of speakers, so we're all set.'

'Isn't he wonderful?' Jack said to Julia, kissing Ianto on the forehead. 'What would I do without him?'

'The same things you do with me, just to someone else,' Ianto deadpanned.

They walked out of the bathroom and into one of the empty rooms on the top floor.

'OK...' said Jack. 'So who forgot to tie the rooms down?'