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impossible to see their faces.
    ‘Hi, boys,’ said Jack Harkness.
    The hoodies swung around. The toads growled at their feet.
    ‘Now that’s what I call antisocial behaviour,’ Jack said. ‘Don’t you guys know that pitbullfrogs are illegal in this time zone?’
    There was a glint of streetlight on metal as one of the thugs produced a knife.
    Jack raised the Webley. ‘Put the blade down, kid, I’m not here to play games.’
    But the thug took a step forward, dropping into a fighting crouch, knife extended. As the owner moved out of the shadows his face became visible beneath the hood of his jacket: cold, angry eyes glared out from glistening, crimson flesh and a multitude of spines quivered around an ugly, puckered mouth.
    ‘Human scum!’ it hissed.
    Jack sighed. ‘Great. Just what the world needs – Blowfish hoodies.’
    ‘Stick ’im, Kerko!’ ordered the second hoodie, and the kid with the knife lunged obediently. Jack stepped inside the thrusting blade, cracked his pistol against the side of the Blowfish’s blubbery head and then threw him backwards into his friend.
    Jack picked up the fallen knife as the Blowfish tumbled to the ground. Beyond them, the two pitbullfrogs were getting excited by the violence.
    One of the Blowfish yelled, ‘Kill ’im!’ and the frogs lurched down the alleyway towards Jack, fangs bared. As the nearest prepared to leap, Jack twisted, shooting from the hip. The beast was flipped backwards, spraying what little brains it had across the alley like a bad sneeze.
    The other pitbullfrog let out a squeal of alarm and bounded away into the darkness.
    ‘Shit!’ exclaimed one of the Blowfish angrily. ‘Those things cost , man! You lousy—’
    Jack pointed the revolver at the Blowfish and it fell silent. But in that second Jack had taken his eyes off Kerko. Enraged, the Blowfish launched himself at Jack and they crashed to the floor in a heap.
    Jack lost his grip on the Webley and suddenly the Blowfish’s hands were around his neck, squeezing hard.
    ‘Kill ’im, Kerko!’ the other urged.
    Jack swung the Blowfish over onto the pavement and butted him with savage force. There was a crunch of bone, and Kerko went limp.
    The other thug leapt onto Jack’s shoulders, but it was a clumsy attempt and Jack threw him off easily. The Blowfish hit the metal shutters of a nearby shop with a clatter but was otherwise unhurt.
    Jack was on him straight away. He pulled him to his feet and then punched the Blowfish hard enough to send him staggering out into the street.
    ‘You’re pretty tough for a fish,’ said Jack, grabbing him by the scruff. ‘But I’ve been handling your sort for over a century now. Give it up, kid.’
    ‘Go to hell!’ spat the fish. ‘Torchwood filth!’
    He struggled and squirmed, swinging his fists. Jack, suddenly tired and angry with this piece of alien flotsam, pushed him roughly away. The thug stumbled out into the road and into the path of an oncoming truck.
    It was a skip lorry, carrying a heavy load. The driver, thickset and bald, was talking on his mobile. Jack watched in mute horror as the truck’s big wheels gobbled the Blowfish up in a single, crunching mouthful, chewed it to a pulp and excreted it from the rear axle. The remains were dragged along the road until there was nothing left but mangled clothes, bones and a long smear of blood.
    The lorry carried on without stopping; the driver hadn’t even noticed. Jack didn’t know whether to be relieved or appalled. He watched the red tail lights turn the corner and then stood and got his breath back in silence.
    Kerko was crawling out of the alley. There was blood dribbling from a split in his forehead where Jack had butted him.
    ‘You murdering bastard,’ gasped the Blowfish. He pointed at the long, wet stripe of gore on the tarmac. His voice was choking. ‘That was my little brother!’
    ‘It was an accident,’ Jack said lamely. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen.’
    Kerko climbed slowly to his