Owen Harper stood looking down on the motorway. It was a pretty uninspiring sight. Cars and lorries roared past, some to Wales, some to London. He had been to London to tie up some loose ends. The early days of Torchwood had left him in a mess, walking out on a mortgage and a career, but walking out on a way of life and a way of thinking too.
It had taken him a long time to literally have any thoughts of returning to sort out his previous life. Owen mulled over the word 'closure' in his mind. It was a pretty poor term used by petty psychologists. It usually referred to crying at funerals or leaving flowers by the roadside. It could mean all sorts of nebulous things, saying "sorry", saying "goodbye", and ultimately meant nothing. You either get over some things or you don't. "Closure" should really mean just that, closing the door and fixing it with a great big padlock.
So when Jack had disappeared, an opportunity had arisen for a bit of clear thinking. Without telling anyone else, Owen had decided to take a week to reflect on what he was doing in Cardiff.
After renting a small car and a couple of hours driving, Owen pitched up at a travel chain hotel in Ealing. Without much planning, he went first to the City of London to say "sorry" on the steps of St. Paul's where he had proposed to his wife. Outside there was a small protest taking place, students and the usual suspects waving banners. Some of the more makeshift sheets had the words "Saxon Out!" spray-painted onto household sheets. Owen had noticed that, oddly, the second word had been struck out, apparently by the same hand. Again, the more professional protestors held aloft neatly trimmed card signs, hand-printed and laminated. But whatever the original demands were, they had been smoothly veneered over with corrective text. "What do we want? Saxon! When do we want him? Now!" Owen felt his thoughts turning away from his plan of closure. He had started to wonder what was going on there.
"Are you attending the choral service?" A voice behind had snapped him back to attention. A young Anglican priest, a man in a smart black suit, smiled and waved him in one of doors off to the side of the front entrance.
"No. Just passing. A few words. A few thoughts." Owen had offered little, but conceded to enter the cathedral.
"That's absolutely fine. It'll be quieter in here though. We have many side chapels. They're ideal for that."
Owen had not intended to make a big religious show, far from it. He politely stood in the small section facing one of the smaller stained glass windows and uneasily counted away a few seconds.
"What are they protesting about?" he whispered to edge out of the situation.
"Goodness knows," said the priest. "Last month it was Harriet Jones. Then a few weeks ago it was that nice Mr. Saxon. I think they were worried he might win the election and drag us into some war or other."
Owen resisted the urge to point out that they read the same papers in Cardiff, but he had nodded sagely.
"Then, the day before the election, they all seemed to wake up in those dreadful tents and agree to take a different tack. Changed all the wording on their banners. Strange. Still protesting, of course. But I can't work out what they are unhappy about now. They seem to have got what they want."
Owen had nodded his agreement, then shook the priest's hand. "Thank you. It was nice to get a moment."
"No problem. All visitors are welcome. We suggest a donation of five pounds, if you don't mind. I can get you a receipt."
After a few more days of wandering around scenic views, the novelty had worn off. So this very morning he had said "goodbye" to his favourite English breakfast at a small café behind the old Arsenal tube station. After an impulsive phonecall a former colleague had travelled from the center of town to meet him.
"Well Owen," he exclaimed. "What a surprise. We all thought you had died at Canary Wharf or in that bizarre Christmas star attack."
"You might as well assume that. Once we're done here, I'm going to disappear again. That'll be the last you see of me." He had motioned his hands together firmly. "Door closed."
"We miss your specialist knowledge at Great Ormond Street. Especially at the pub quiz. I was never any good at sports." That had been a low blow, and the conversation dipped while they ate.
Owen had begun to slump slightly over the tight table, closing his eyelids a little, making the room a little hazier, unreal, like when he was a child. Outside, the rain lashed the pavement quietly. A fading election poster with Mr. Saxon's smiling face stared back at him. Some rebellious child had crayoned on a ridiculous beard, along with horns and a trident.
"I've got nothing left to give there," he conceded. "But there are things that I do now, that are important. Very important. You do what you can, and I'll do what I can."
"Of course, Owen. I'll save the world my way and you save the world yours."
Owen had nodded, and within minutes they were both on their way again traveling in different directions.
And on that Monday morning he had closed the door. Locked it shut. And here he was, a quick pie at Reading, and a bit of a breather before submerging himself again in the pit of oddness that might easily see out the rest of his life.
"To Wales," he muttered.