Torchwood: The Men Who Sold The World (21 page)

Mr Wynter sat amongst the trees that surrounded the Holocaust memorial and looked down at the bag of weapons.

‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘But nobody gets to play with you, it’s time the world became simpler again.’

He pointed the Ytraxorian rifle at the bag and turned it into dust.

‘And as for you…’ He looked at the rifle. ‘Oh, I know you don’t want to go anywhere.’ And this was true, he could feel the semi-sentience of the thing, crawling around inside his head, filling it with impressions. ‘Still, it would be better were I to look after you, don’t you think?’ It buzzed its reply, a warm, affirmative glow. ‘Good. But before we pack you away for a little while, perhaps just a couple more tasks…’

Mr Wynter’s employer was sat in the small room above the toy company offices. He was tired and the last thing he wanted was to have the meeting he had just arranged; in truth, he didn’t even think it was necessary. Gleason had been missing now for weeks, with no word from him. There had been no threats, no demands. The general assumption was that he had finally lost his bottle and made a run for it. Taking the weapons, unfortunately, but it was only a matter of time before they found their way back on the open market. Then they would be bought, and things would finally be as they should.

Not the ending they had hoped for, but one far better than many of the alternatives.

There was a knock on the door.

The man sighed. Who was this now? None of his colleagues would knock… Wasn’t the place supposed to be empty at this time of night? Some eager employee burning the midnight oil he supposed.

‘Come in,’ he said.

The door opened, and a young man stepped in.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he said, ‘but there’s a Mr Wynter who wishes you to come down and talk to him.’

‘Mr Wynter?’

Now here was a turn-up, the man thought, he hadn’t expected Wynter to get in touch again. Assumed he’d run off with his tail between his legs, only too aware that his time was up and that it was better to run now rather than be ‘retired’ later.

He got to his feet and moved over to the door. ‘Down where?’ he asked, pushing past the young man.

‘Way down,’ the young man replied, pressing the needle of a hypodermic syringe into the man’s neck. ‘As low as you can go.’

Mr Wynter’s employer woke up a short time later, his head foggy from the after-effects of the drug.

It was dark, and for a moment he thought he was alone. Then a light clicked on, and the young man’s face appeared in front of him.

‘Hello,’ the young man said. ‘Pleasant dreams?’

‘Who are you?’ the prisoner asked, yanking at the handcuffs that kept him fixed to his chair.

‘Oh,’ said the young man, ‘I’ve had many names, always changing, always moving. In fact,’ he said, pulling himself closer and removing a knife and fork from his pocket, ‘I think there’s only one thing in my life that I could say was constant.’

‘What’s that?’ the prisoner asked, though he was afraid he knew.

‘Hunger,’ said Mr Wynter as he leaned in close.

Bent Low ran towards the shape in the distance, forcing his tired legs to move fast so they gave him speed and heat.

As he got closer, he could see that the shape was a man, though not like Bent Low. This man’s skin was paler and almost hairless. He was bigger than Bent Low, a giant, and he wore strange, thin skins. He will be dead when the cold comes, thought Bent Low. Those skins will give no heat at all. Maybe he was dead already. For surely a man could not fall out of the sky and survive? He was old, Bent Low could tell from the way the colour had faded from his short hairs. But his muscles were strong, he would still be able to hunt, of that Bent Low was sure. The animals would fear a man like this if he chased them on the plain.

‘Please,’ the man said, though Bent Low could not understand the noise, keeping back in case the man was dangerous. ‘Please…’ the man continued reaching out to Bent Low, ‘my name’s… Cotter Gleason and…’ The man looked around, that
uncertain look on his face that meant what he said was not a truth. Bent Low knew that look, he felt it on his face sometimes when his young asked for more meat. ‘I’m with the CIA.’

The noises meant nothing to Bent Low, they were not language as he understood it, a simple thing of question and answer that kept his tribe functioning. The members of this sky tribe were strange indeed, he thought. Then another thought occurred to him: this man was broken. Bent Low could see from its legs that it could not run. In places, the skins that covered him had torn apart showing the red of the strange man’s meat beneath.

Bent Low’s family were hungry, this man would just be food for the animals went night came. Why waste the meat?

Cautiously, he raised his axe and moved up behind the fallen old man of the sky tribe. He didn’t think he had any tricks in him that could catch Bent Low but he wasn’t about to take the risk.

The eyes of the old man went narrow and Bent Low saw the intent to strike. Stupid old man, he thought, I am not the hunter my father was, but I am still a better hunter than you. People from the sky tribe must always be hungry, he decided, if they couldn’t hide their plans better than that. He sidestepped the man’s attempts to grab him and brought his axe down hard and quick on the old man’s head. The man from the sky tribe pushed the life out of his mouth. It passed over his wrinkled lips like the wind of winter.

Bent Low gave a little dance of pleasure before squatting down to quickly strip the strange man of his meat. He tested a small piece of it and it was good, tough but full of flavour. Bent Low filled his sack until he couldn’t fit any more.

Then he began the run back to his cave and his people.

The sky had given him a gift indeed! They wouldn’t be hungry now.

Not for a while at least.

Writing a book is not, as some suggest, a lonely business. Especially not one to do with
Torchwood
. This one would not have been possible without support, comments and wise suggestions from a handful of folk. Lord Gary Russell of Cardiff, of course, and the Wise King of Los Angeles, Russell T Davies, whose initial script for
Miracle Day
I absolutely did not read and utterly adore. I have signed a Non-Disclosure Agreement that certifies the fact. Never read the wonderful, thrilling, glistening thing. Not one word. Their comments both before I began writing and after I’d finished were spot on the money and gratefully received.

As always, Debs read the thing as it was coming out of my head and acted as deadline monitor (‘Have you finished yet? How about now? Or now? OK, I’ll be patient… Now?’). She is wonderful and just what I need to keep me on track.

Finally, without Steve Tribe there would have been no book in the first place (so if you hated it blame him). The alcohol- and tobacco-fuelled
engine behind so many of these books, he took another punt on me and I will always be grateful for his trust, advice and taste in music. He is a fine chap, and everything you’ve heard is a jealous lie.

James Goss was absolutely no help at all.

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Published in 2011 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing.
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Copyright © Guy Adams 2011

Guy Adams has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Torchwood is a BBC Worldwide Production for the BBC and Starz Originals. Executive producers: Russell T Davies, Julie Gardner and Jane Tranter

Original series created by Russell T Davies, and developed and produced by BBC Cymru Wales. BBC, ‘Torchwood’ and the Torchwood logo are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.

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ISBN 978 1 849 90285 4

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Cover design: Lee Binding © Woodlands Books Ltd, 2011
Production: Rebecca Jones

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