Another Life by Peter Anghelides

and a glass of water – all that Tiger we had with dinner, it just went right through me. When I got back, you’d rolled over onto my side. That’s why I had a bit of trouble with your lamp there. Sorry, couldn’t quite see what was what.’ He stooped down by her side of the bed and started to pick up the books and pens and papers he’d accidentally scattered on the floor. ‘You’ve had quite a few restless nights, haven’t you? Since starting this new job. What’s all that about?’ He laughed. ‘Guilty conscience?’
    ‘Oh, hark at you,’ Gwen retorted. ‘Guilty conscience about my new job? That’s your mate Gaz talking, that is. Like you never have nightmares?’
    ‘I always sleep well. The sleep of the just.’
    ‘The sleep of the shagged, more like,’ she told him. ‘Your post-coital coma is what you mean, Rhys.’
    He dumped some of the papers on the bedside cabinet, leaned over, and attempted to snog her.
    ‘Not fair!’ she protested, laughing, as she smelled the Colgate. ‘You’ve brushed your teeth, and I bet I’ve got bog breath.’
    ‘I don’t care.’
    ‘Well I do,’ she told him. ‘And besides, I need the loo now.’
    Rhys stood up to let her out of the bed. ‘I’ll tidy up the rest of this mess I’ve made while you have your wee, then.’
    Gwen tiptoed over the cold bathroom lino and left him to sort out the strewn papers. Since joining Torchwood, she’d had restless nights because she woke up with thoughts and ideas and then stayed awake fretting that she wouldn’t remember them the next day. She’d taken to scribbling them on shop receipts and envelopes, and eventually in a small notebook. She trusted Rhys not to nosey around in her stuff, but didn’t trust herself not to lose it, so it was written in abbreviations and codes. Inevitably, that meant her night-time jottings were either in indecipherable handwriting or, when examined in the cold light of morning, just tired rambling nonsense.
    ‘Is this a new mobile number?’ Rhys called through to her.
    She emerged back into their room, still clutching her toothbrush. She wiped one wet hand on her nightie, and took the Post-it note from him.
    ‘Scribbled out in a bit of a hurry,’ he observed, ‘and not your handwriting. That says “Gwen”, and a number… is that a zero or a six?’
    Gwen knew that the scrawled word was “Owen”. He’d shoved his mobile number at her, while giving her some half-hearted cheesy chat-up line. She’d told him to piss off. It was a joke anyway, a gesture, because all the Torchwood phones had everyone’s number programmed in on speed dial. Even so, when she’d emptied the pockets that evening before hanging her jacket in the wardrobe, she’d found the Post-it note still there.
    ‘Message from the office,’ she told Rhys. Gwen took it with her back to the bathroom, sticking it on the mirror while she had a pee. As she sat, she thought about the dream. Jack in the pool. Owen watching from the balcony.
    She got back to the bed, and stooped close to Rhys to get a proper snog. He was sprawled comfortably across his own side, mouth wide open, taking regular breaths.
    Gwen listened to Rhys breathing. She went back and retrieved the Post-it from the bathroom mirror. Tucked it into her notebook. Put the notebook on the bedside cabinet. Slipped back into bed with Rhys, and switched off the lamp. Lay in the dark, listening to the ceaseless rain.

TEN
    Russian roulette was definitely more interesting with real people, decided Owen. And playing it in the Torchwood Hub gave it an added frisson of excitement. There was the danger of being caught by Jack or Gwen or Toshiko, which was just as exhilarating as knowing that he risked getting his brains splattered across his own desk. Though that would be harder to explain than it would be to clear up afterwards.
    He sniffed the air in the room, expecting his nostrils to fill with the scent of cordite and freshly sprayed blood. Beside him, slumped