Torchwood’s gonna find out by morning, but I’ll be gone. I don’t know where. Far away. What am I gonna do? I loved this job. I really loved it. And now I’ve got to run. Oh, Christ. How can you do any other job after this one? Cos it gets inside you. You do this job for long enough, and you end up thinking, “How come we get all the Weevils and bollocks and shit?” Is that what alien life is? Filth? But maybe there’s better stuff out there, brilliant stuff, beautiful stuff. Just… they don’t come here. This planet’s so dirty, that’s all we get - the shit.