One of the first times they had used the alien Resurrection Glove to bring a dead man back to life for just a minute or two had been on a murder victim in a rain-lashed Cardiff back alley. And Jack had used those precious, stolen moments of life to ask the man what was it like? What was there? What was waiting in the darkness?

The answer, of course, was: you really, really don’t want to know.

And, gradually, Jack had come to realise that he genuinely didn’t want to know. Because whatever waited there, in that undiscovered country, should remain undiscovered. It was dark and endless and utterly unforgiving. And it scared him – because although he may never encounter it, he knew the people he loved more than anything else would. They always did.

Ianto would die. He would slip out of Jack’s arms forever one day – into the cold, black embrace of death, never to return.

And Gwen. When Jack closed his eyes he could picture her lying on a mortuary slab, white as plaster. Those big, beautiful eyes would never open again, never see him, never understand him.

Ianto appeared quietly at his side with a cup of coffee. Jack hadn’t even smelled it coming.

‘I’ve put the Blowfish back in his cell,’ Ianto said. ‘He’ll probably come round in a few minutes.’

‘Thanks.’ Jack looked at Ianto. ‘You look beat. Get some rest.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Don’t argue,’ Jack smiled. ‘I’m in charge. Get some rest and that’s an order.’

‘Aye aye, Captain.’ Ianto turned to leave again, paused, looked back. ‘I am all right, you know.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

But he wasn’t. Ianto looked pale and tired and there was still that sheen of sweat on his forehead. At other times Jack would have been mildly excited by that, but something was worrying him now. Ianto never sweated. At least, not without permission.