Just a quick note from your favourite bespoke terminator as he takes a moment to reflect on, well… all of this.

Short fiction is a tightrope. Outstay your welcome and it’s a slog. Go too fast, it’s a sprint. Go at just the right speed, you get this.

We’re 2.5 years into a pandemic most major Western governments have decided is less inconvenient than thousands of deaths. The climate is collapsing, it sometimes seems, in real time. There is a second, not nearly Cold enough War. The best don’t just lack all conviction, they’re exhausted and terrified and just trying to get through the day with their trousers on the right way round.

Torchwood is just the same. Mr Colchester takes a moment after his latest encounter with an alien threat and tells us, as only he can, that it’s not okay. That it’s not close to okay in fact but it’s that way for everyone, for him too and that’s something. Paul Clayton is remarkable here, giving Torchwood’s best dressed a rumpled edge that’s reminiscent of Cabin Pressure’s Douglas Richardson with a licence to kill or the Doctor at their most exhausted, their most righteous, their most furious and their most compassionate.

Because Mr Colchester is all of those things and so are we and that very fractiousness is key to this little story grenade. It’s what saves the day or at least saves the day enough and James Goss’ script hits the grace notes of amusement, grief and rage perfectly.

Verdict: Torchwood is at its best when it’s political and anyone who thinks different hasn’t noticed we’re living a bad cover version of Children of Earth. But it truly shines, as Doctor Who does, when it’s compassionate. When a man made of bespoke tailoring, regret and absolute love for his husband takes a moment to send us a postcard and to breathe out. Torchwood. Saving the day. Even this day. Especially this day.

Thanks, I needed this. I think you might too. 10/10

Alasdair Stuart

Click to download (free) from Big Finish