‘All right,’ you say, calm and loud. ‘I’m coming out.’ You reach down. slowly, and kill the Wolf’s Rover V8 engine as easily as you’re going to kill one of these sentries.

As you step from the vehicle, you scoop up your Browning and slip it into the rear of your waistband. At nearly two pounds weight, it’s not comfortable or safe to hide the pistol there, but it’s out of Foxton and Kandahal’s line of sight.

The light wind wafts the sound of church bells to you from the local village, heralding the afternoon service as usual. You think: Time of death, twelve thirty.

No point in running. Just time for a quick smile. ‘See you again,’ you tell them brightly. ‘Soon.’

The muscles in Kandahal’s forearm twitch. ‘I said hands in the air, Sergeant-’

Even before he’s finished speaking, you’ve brought the Browning around in a double-handed grip and loosed off two shells in quick succession. The first takes Kandahal in the forehead, just below the badge on his beret, and he sprawls in an ugly pile on the tarmac.

Foxton still has you cold. You let him fire the killing shot, and hope for better luck in another life.

TWO

‘People live here,’ Jack Harkness said to Gwen as they stepped out of the Torchwood SUV.

‘Yeah. Awful, isn’t it?’ she answered. ‘Even when it’s gone eight o’clock in the rest of Wales, it’ll still be 1955 in Splott.’

Jack looked at her sideways. ‘No, I mean they live here.’ He gestured around the alley, at the concrete walls of the flats that stretched nine storeys above them on both sides. ‘They don’t just exist. They breathe. They love. Play, decide, plan, laugh, screw. It has the smell of life.’