Almost Perfect

EMMA WEBSTER IS A MARKED
WOMAN
Gwen waited until Rhys was asleep, and then slipped out of bed and drove to the Hub. She loved the furtive feeling of wandering across the empty plaza, stepping up to the fountain, and then the click and the cold rush of night air as the invisible lift carried her down.
Sensing her presence, lights flickered gently into action, lighting up each of the storeys that the lift carried her through. Little pathways across the Hub’s floor lit up, and she stepped over to her desk, switched her computer on, then went over to put the kettle on. Ianto wasn’t around, so she figured she could make a cup of instant without getting into trouble. She guiltily kept a tiny jar hidden in her workstation. She’d tried telling him once that instant wasn’t so bad, really, but he’d just stared at her, like she was giving the ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech.
Once into the system, she uploaded the digital pictures she’d taken of the room, along with details of the people on the register. She watched as the complicated alien machinery at the heart of Torchwood’s computer reached out into the internet, cross-matching faces and names and pulling in information – phone numbers, more photos, blog posts, one small criminal record, a wish list from Amazon, a history of dodgy dealings on eBay, some ill-advised beach photos from Facebook, a video of a restored car from YouTube, and proof that Gavin was quite the best player of Warcraft in Cardiff. But there was one name and face that Gwen homed in on. She clicked her mouse, and watched as Emma Webster floated forward, gradually filling the screen. Another click, a slight fumble, a small curse, two right clicks, and more images of her from over the years popped up on several other monitors that flickered into life.
‘She is gorgeous.’
Gwen screamed and jumped.
Bugger.
There, holding out a cup of freshly brewed coffee, was Ianto. He looked a million dollars in a neat little dress with kicky heels, like he’d been to a board meeting, followed swiftly by a cocktail party and an awards ceremony.
Gwen sat there, guilty and dishevelled, in the old sweatpants she sometimes slept in and a baggy T-shirt, her hand still clasped in shock to her breast, waiting for her breath to come back.
‘Ianto! Don’t do that!’ She was furious with herself for being scared.
‘I’m so sorry. I thought you’d like some coffee. I really didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘And what are you doing looking like Grace Kelly?’
Ianto looked a bit blank. ‘Like what?’ He glanced down.
‘Oh this? Oh, it’s nothing, really. Just something I found in the Archive. Turns out there’s tonnes down there. Sometimes it’s nice to wear really good clothes. I’ve always felt comfortable in smart clothes – you know how it is, stick with what makes you feel comfy.’ He glanced at Gwen, and smiled.
Gwen felt herself curling up. Especially when she realised there were still bits of lasagne stuck to her T-shirt.
‘Yeah,’ she said slowly.
Ianto stepped forward and settled the cup down. ‘Truthfully, I didn’t feel much like going to sleep. I’ve not been sleeping well. Nothing really planned. Did a bit of tidying in the vaults.’
‘No Jack?’
Ianto shrugged. ‘Still out trying to track down the cause of his static cloud. You know how he is. So what’s all this, then?’
Reluctantly, Gwen turned her attention back to the screen. ‘Well, Rhys and I went to that speed-dating thing.’
Ianto smiled. ‘Taking your husband speed-dating is so modern.’
‘Yeah. He turned out to be quite useful, actually. More useful than Jack would have been.’
‘I’m always useful!’ Jack strode in from nowhere, flinging his coat onto the sofa. He adopted his big beam. ‘Twenty strangers, some alcohol, and a chance to make small talk? Thirty minutes and we’d all have been in a big naked heap.’
‘Exactly,’ said Gwen. ‘Lovely fun for you, I’m sure, Jack, but we wouldn’t have learnt anything. Whereas Rhys and I—’
‘I think it’s sweet,’ put in Ianto.
‘We learned a lot. I think. I had a hunch about one of the women there. It turns out she’s one of the women missing from Tombola’s. And that’s not all.’
Jack looked at the screens, filled with pictures of Emma Webster. ‘Her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Quite the babe. I would. I definitely would. Wouldn’t you, Ianto?’
‘If you promised not to film it, Jack, then yes.’
My eyes, thought Gwen. ‘Anyway – Emma Webster. Here’s the youngest picture we’ve got.’ A school photo flashed up. It showed Emma in her late teens, a bit sullen, a bit spotty, still a bit of puppyfat. Surrounded by her classmates, she just looked cold and unhappy.
Jack leaned in closely, smiling fondly. ‘You know, I’m in one of my school photos three times. The Time Agency gave me a medal and a small fine.’
Gwen pressed on. ‘Look – here she is at her thirtieth birthday party. A couple of weeks ago.’
‘Yeah. Better. She’s grown up well.’
‘Yeah – but… she’s not… jaw-dropping. She either’s really made an effort for speed-dating, or something… different’s going on here. I mean look – here she is last night.’
They looked. They saw what she meant.
‘It’s not like she’s had work done, it’s just like she’s… better.’
‘Emma 2.0,’ said Ianto.
Jack nodded. ‘Now she’s… stunning. She’s perfect.’
Perfect. They both looked at Ianto.
He coughed. ‘I’ll go and make some more coffee, shall I?’
Two sets of eyes watched him go.




EMMA WEBSTER IS ABOUT TO
BE OFF THE MARKET AGAIN
He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.
Who am I kidding?
He loves me.




RHYS WILLIAMS IS A
CHANGED MAN
After his first decent night’s sleep in days, Rhys woke up and lumbered out of bed, neatly ignoring Gwen’s stabbing foot and her murmur of ‘tea… tea… tea…’
He switched on the shower, started cleaning his teeth and hunting out some clothes for the day – all without a single thought in his head. And, when he did have a thought, it was to glimpse his reflection in the mirror and think, ‘Looking good, boy.’
He got out of the shower, marvelling at how that new shower gel really did leave him feeling tingling and refreshed. Gwen pottered into the bathroom, started cleaning her teeth and then stopped, brush motionless, foam flecking her mouth. ‘Mmmkhing hell!’ she managed, paste dribbling onto the floor.
‘What?’ asked Rhys, towelling himself down.
Gwen’s eyes were wide. She pointed at him with her brush.
‘You’re looking… well, different, that’s all, Rhys. Taller.’
Rhys shrugged. ‘A bit of attention from another woman, that’s all it takes for you to see what you’ve got, love.’
‘Ha. Ha,’ muttered Gwen. She was knackered. Jack was right. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep this week.
‘Hey, love, I reckon I’ve lost a bit after all, you know. I swear these jeans are hanging off me.’ He stood proudly in front of her, thumb pulling out the spare fabric.
‘They stretch, you know,’ muttered Gwen, without really looking. And then she really looked. ‘Where did you get that six pack?’
‘What?’ And then Rhys looked in the mirror. And a grin lit up his face. ‘Bloody hell, love! I’m staying at home today and washing the car. Topless.’
Gwen narrowed her eyes. Bless Rhys. Last time he lost weight, he’d been infected with an alien parasite. This time – well, she wasn’t inclined to believe that doughnuts and risotto were the magical keys to unlocking abdominal strength.
‘Well done, love,’ she said, keeping the worry out of her voice. Rhys seemed taller, broader – and even his face was a bit different. Slightly… well, more like he’d look in the movie of his life.
She looked at him stood there, hands on his hips, grinning at his reflection in the mirror. ‘Bloody marvellous, this! I look perfect!’
As she went to put the kettle on, she noticed his grey hairs were gone and really, really started to worry.




IANTO MISSES POCKETS
They were sat in the Torchwood SUV. A traffic warden was coming towards them across the car park. Jack was sat humming quietly to himself. Gwen realised, sadly, that the man had no real idea what ‘Pay and Display’ actually meant.
‘Ianto, hun, could you go and feed the meter? Quickly.’
‘Sure,’ said Ianto, and hefted something onto his lap the size of a labrador with handles. It appeared to be the world’s largest handbag. He dived into it muttering, ‘I’m sure I’ve got a purse in here somewhere.’
Gwen stifled a laugh. ‘Oh, no one needs a bag that large!’
Ianto looked up, puzzled. ‘But, I needed something big enough for my gun. And my house keys, and my MP3, and the phone, the PDA, the chargers, and a copy of Captain Corelli. Honestly, by the time you slip in some mints and a spare pair of tights, it’s full house, I can tell you.’
Jack arched an eyebrow.
The traffic warden tapped on the windscreen.
Jack held up his Torchwood ID. The traffic warden shook his head.
Jack looked back, placatingly, and started fishing around in his pockets. ‘Honestly, we save this city from alien disaster several times a year, and they still make us adhere to parking regulations. Do you know who really developed the internal combustion engine? Torchwood did. And this is the thanks we get. Well, that and one-way systems – the product of a tiny mind.’ Jack pouted, looking for all the world like a spoiled child. It was at moments like this, those rare moments when little things didn’t go Jack’s way, that Gwen saw the true hero. A man not frightened by vast evil, corrupt states or lost souls, but baffled by pettiness, bureaucracy and muddling mediocrity. Why he had sentenced himself to Wales, she would never really understand.
They were parked outside Rhys’s work.
That morning, Gwen had stormed into Torchwood, magnificently worried.
‘My husband’s too pretty!’ she’d yelled. ‘You’ve got to do something, Jack!’ She caught the look in his eye. ‘Don’t you go sassing me, Harkness. I am deadly serious.’
‘Sass?’ tutted Jack in mock affront. ‘I don’t do sass, do I? I prefer to think of it as kittenish charm. What do you think, Ianto?’
‘Definitely kittenish,’ said Ianto.
‘Sod the kittens,’ Gwen was in full flow. ‘Rhys woke up bloody gorgeous this morning, and I want to find the woman who’s done that to him.’
As she spoke, she was flinging photos from her phone up onto the Hub’s screens, until pictures of Rhys bobbed across the wall. Some were of their wedding, two were before and after shots of the back of his head, and one was of him this morning, wearing only a towel and waving sheepishly at the camera.
‘Look at Rhys!’ Gwen shrieked. ‘Overnight he’s gained an extra two inches!’
Jack carefully didn’t say anything. Ianto examined the intricate walnut inlay of the table surface.
Gwen pressed on. ‘It’s not natural. It’s wrong, that’s what it is. He goes on a date with a supermodel. He wakes up the next day all Abercrumpet. Shortly after Ianto wakes up bloody gorgeous. Buzzz! I rather do think there just may be a link.’
She suddenly knew she had Jack’s full attention. Finally.
‘Emma Webster. This woman is speed-dating, Jack. She is combing through Cardiff’s singletons – those she likes get a free makeover, those she doesn’t end up dead. Whatever she’s using, whatever her power, it’s not been around more than a week. She’s got her hands on some alien thing and… and… she’s using it to make her ideal man.’
‘Rhys?’ said Ianto and Jack.
They looked again at the picture of the jovial, weakly smiling bloke drifting across the walls of their boardroom.




GWEN IS THE GREEN-EYED
MONSTER
‘Oh, hi, Gwen,’ said Large Mandy from the office, laughing her normal large laugh. ‘Are you here for Rhys? He’s just on the phone. Would you like a doughnut?’
Gwen glanced at the plate full of pastries. Mandy was obviously Rhys’s enabler, keeping him fuelled on whatever crap she could lay her hands on. Ah well. She wondered how Mandy had taken Rhys’s sudden transformation. And then she found out.
‘I must say, Gwen, love, he’s looking knockout today. The girls from upstairs have been popping down to have a peek. He’s quite something – I’ll say this, married life suits him. Not like my Ted. Oh, I tell you, you wouldn’t believe the size of him these days. I always tells people I work in haulage and they looks at Ted and they laughs. It’s our little joke, see.’ Mandy laughed. ‘I’m glad we lives in a bungalow these days, or lord alone knows how I’d get him up and down the stairs.’
‘Right,’ said Gwen. This was about all she could ever think to say to Mandy.
Rhys popped his head round the door. ‘Gwen? I thought it was you.’
He looked really happy to see her. Actually, he looked bloody stunning. It was ages since she’d seen him look this happy.
‘Come in, come in – I’ve got things to tell you. It’s about… Her!’
She wandered into his office, watching as he excitedly shut the cheap, thin door. She imagined Mandy on thundering tiptoe sneaking closer to eavesdrop on the other side. She clearly wasn’t alone in this – Rhys had dropped his voice to a spy movie whisper.
‘She! Phoned! Emma!’
‘When?’
‘Just now! Asking me out on a proper date!’ Rhys was actually rubbing his hands together.
‘Congratulations. You going to tell her you’re married?’
‘No! I’m going to go on the date.’
‘Rhys are you out of your tiny skull? For all we know that woman is a crazed killer. Look what she’s done to you already…’
Rhys looked down at himself and flashed her the same proud, silly smile he normally saved for when he let one off in the car. ‘Oh, I dunno. I don’t think it can be her. She’s so nice, love, but this is just careful eating.’
Gwen glanced bitterly at the half-eaten doughnut on a plate by the phone. ‘Bollocks. That woman is dangerous, she is manipulative, and she is after you. You are not going on that date.’
‘She’s hardly the black widow, is she?’
‘Rhys, wherever she goes, corpses turn up. She’s sliced through the dating scene in Cardiff. And now she’s sunk her claws into you. She is dangerous.’
‘And she’s expecting me to pick her up tonight at eight. And I’m going.’
‘What?’
Rhys’s stubborn streak was showing. ‘You want to find out more about her? You will. You can put a wire on me, you can all follow me. Dinner with her? She’ll open up to the Williams charm, tell me everything about her, and you can all listen in. If she is the Black Widow of the Bay, then you can arrest her. If she’s just a lonely gorgeous soul, then I’ll do my best to let her down gently.’
Let her down gently? ‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll cope.’
‘You are so jealous!’ Rhys appeared delighted at this. ‘It’s fine. Admit it, Gwen – I’m your best lead. And isn’t it just nicer to have a friendly chat over a bottle of wine than hosing her down in your cells? I won’t let anything happen to me. And at the slightest sound of danger, you and Jack can come crashing in like cowboys and save me.’
‘Too bloody right we will.’
‘Do I get a code word?’
‘Cocktail sausage. Work it into conversation however you will.’
‘Can’t it be saveloy?’
Gwen hugged him. ‘I love you, but I think this is really, really silly. I don’t want you coming to any harm.’
Rhys shook his head. ‘You always were a terrible judge of women. Emma’s a nice girl. And this is a first date. Nothing ever happens on a first date.’
Gwen stared at him, open-jawed. ‘If she doesn’t kill you, I will.’





EMMA WEBSTER IS
DETERMINED
‘I will not end up a gin-addled spinster in a cat-soaked attic.’
She scanned down Facebook and noticed that her ex, Paul, had changed his relationship status. She felt cold and unhappy. She’d always thought that, you know, maybe at some point they’d get back together. But here he was ‘in a relationship with Helen Corrigan’. There was even a picture of the two of them out together. She looked bright and young and happy and a bit on the drunk side. He looked as good as he’d ever looked. And underneath it, he’d posted: ‘Hey babe! I can’t believe it – the one time I look better than you in a photo, and I’m SLAUGHTERED!!!’
Helen had commented: ‘LOL!’
Emma took against her purely on that basis.
Hey, Emo girl, why so sad?
I’m just – you know, grieving for what’s lost.
Grieving? The past is where you dump things you no longer need. The future’s all fresh and tidy. Listen to me – we’re going to do better than Paul. You’re seeing Rhys tonight, aren’t you? That’s something to look forward to.
Emma watched as Vile Kate pottered across the office and perched on the edge of her desk, leaning over to talk to Susan. Her mouth was starting to swell up due to some ‘mystery allergy’. Despite her nastily swollen lips, she had a happy little smile on her face.
And… oh yes, a little belly. She’s ballooned already! I wonder if she’s noticed that everyone thinks she’s pregnant. They’re even getting up a card for her.
Kate finished talking to Susan about something to do with the laser printer and turned to Emma, wearing her ‘sad face’, even sadder due to her dramatically bloated lips that made her look like a goldfish dealing with terrible news. ‘Ooh. Sorry to see your ex has found someone else. Are you OK?’ She squeezed her shoulder, and Emma cursed that she’d been unable to think of a reason for declining Kate’s friendship request – which gave her instant access to a treasure trove of embarrassing facts and moments.
Emma nodded. ‘I’ve moved on.’
Kate slid her head onto one side, like she was listening for an approaching train. ‘Oh. I’m so pleased. I always think it’s tragic when we can’t move on. There’s no point in torturing yourself over your failures, pet.’ And she smiled again and walked away.
Cancer?




OWEN HARPER IS STILL DEAD
Jack sat on his own in the Boardroom, just listening to the sounds of Torchwood. It was never quiet, even here, several storeys below Cardiff Bay. There was always the rumble of traffic, and the thud of the waves, the not-quite-right ticking from their unique computer system, the occasional roar of a Weevil, and the angry hum of the Rift Manipulator, the only thing keeping Cardiff from being torn out of existence. Oh, plus, sometimes, he swore he could hear the chiming of a grandfather clock, but he’d never found it, or asked Ianto where it was.
This was his time, and he loved it. In his long lives, he’d only ever felt truly at home in Torchwood – the only place and time that suited him. All the noises comforted him – in an odd way, this creepy, dark place was his only friend. It let him think.
He heard a distant footfall. Ianto, he thought. He didn’t say anything until he came into the room.
‘Oh, hi,’ said Ianto, awkwardly. He was wearing his favourite suit back from when he’d been a man. And carrying a tray of coffee. He tried out a brave smile. ‘Normal service has been resumed.’ He set down the tray with a bang and waited. His smile faded as his look at Jack became desperate.
‘Oh, Ianto,’ Jack got up and walked over to his friend, gripping him by the shoulders. ‘You look ridiculous in those clothes.’
Ianto shrugged. ‘What every girl wants to hear. I just felt like a change. Hoping it would jog my memory.’ He poured milk into Jack’s cup, stirred it and handed it to him. Jack took it, brushing his hand against Ianto’s. Ianto held it, but snatched his away when Gwen came in in a waft of pastry flakes. She put down her sausage roll on the Boardroom desk, scattering more crumbs, and grabbed a coffee from the tray. Only then did she notice Ianto. She paused. ‘Hum. OK. It’s quite Marlene. I’ll give you that.’
‘Really?’ said Jack. ‘I think she’d be quite upset.’
‘Hey!’ protested Ianto, tugging unhappily at the suddenly overlong sleeves of his jacket.
Jack pressed on.
‘Now, sit down. Ianto, drink some of your excellent coffee, and listen. I’ve got some news. News about what made you the man you are today.’
He pushed a key, and documents managed to drift onto the Boardroom computer screen. As he waved his hands in the air, various ones floated forward to fill the wall.
‘This was an active file of Owen’s. He was monitoring various news reports about revolutionary gene therapy. Apparently this was a therapy that wasn’t available on the NHS – the makers said they’d been told by various hospitals that it was too costly. But they were claiming some success with all the usual suspects – the big C, the big A, the even bigger A, and even baldness and wrinkles. So far – so normal. There are a dozen of these stories every week in the papers. Breakthrough press releases that are never heard from again, or turn out to be flawed studies. But you know how it is – everyone wants to be perfect, to be cured. And we know that a couple of these stories have turned out to be worth Torchwood’s time. And so, they’re flagged.
‘This one – there was something that grabbed Owen’s attention. It was partly the deliberately low-key nature of the reports. As though the people behind it wanted the public to know about it, but didn’t want anyone to take it seriously. Then it turns out that…’ He paused. A long document floated past in very small print. ‘… This is the report from the NHS trust that was supposed to have looked into this treatment. It’s a fake – no one has even considered using this. It’s not even been through basic testing – that’s all faked too. This treatment is a fake. Which isn’t necessarily a problem – only there are all of these testimonies to its success. And they read wrong – they’re not showing up like the fluke cures you get from placebo trials. Nor do they read like faked testimonials. No “Mrs N of Stoke-on-Trent” – these are the real things. Names, addresses, photos. All over the last two months, appearing in papers across the country, but all claiming to have received treatment in Wales. Owen thought that this was a fake cure that accidentally worked. So, we flagged it. And then, on the night you disappeared, Gwen and I were out hunting Weevils, and here you were. Alone. Cleaning the coffee filter. Same old Saturday night. And then the file noticed this, and sent you an alert.’
A small newspaper article floated to fill the screen:
HEALTHCARE ALL AT SEA FOR MIRACLE CURE
DOCTORS ARE DEMANDING to know if a miracle cure is legal, following the discovery that secret gene treatments are being offered on a Dublin to Cardiff ferry service.’
‘Oh my god!’ said Gwen. ‘The ferry!’
The headline swum slowly across the wall.
Gwen shook her head. ‘But… No one mentioned anything strange. They just seemed shocked. They literally didn’t know what hit them. Everything seemed OK.’
Jack looked at her. ‘Read on…’
Nicknamed the ‘Hope Boat’, this is an ordinary ferry service that has been offered for the last four months. Patients can join normal passengers heading to the Emerald Isle and, once the ferry is in International Waters, the apparently ‘illegal, untested’ treatment can be carried out.
‘It’s brilliant,’ said Barry Truman, 48, of Minehead. ‘We did some shopping in Cardiff, some sightseeing in Dublin, and on the way back my cancer was cured. My GP had given up on me, but apparently I’m in complete remission.’
Furious NHS officials are demanding access to the Hope Boat, but the ferry company has explained that the procedure is nothing to do with them. ‘We know it goes on,’ explained a spokesman for the company, ‘but we don’t know who carries out the treatment, or even who the patients are. All we know is that there’s a lot of miracle cures going on onboard, and who are we to stop that?’
Cancer specialist Oliver Feltrow disagrees: ‘Terminal illness care has always been prey to so-called miracle hoaxes like this. Proper palliative care can be derailed by these claims of a total cure, leading to a tragically inevitable relapse. The really sick people are those behind this scam.’
Passengers on the ferry last weekend rallied to support the Hope Boat. ‘I had no idea,’ said Mr Ross Kielty, 35, of Neath. ‘Fancy learning that the wife and I have been on a shopping trip while everyone around us has been cured of god knows what. No wonder they’re drinking the bar dry!’
There were several photographs accompanying the article. A picture of the ferry and a few shots of passengers. They started to drift into close-up on the screen as Jack continued his narrative.
‘So, the system notices this article, and flags it as being on our very doorstep. And so, as the only person in the Hub, you print out a timetable and head out. And that’s not all. Look…’
Gwen gasped. There, at the very back of a crowd of a picture from over a week ago, was a woman who looked exactly like Ianto.
‘I don’t remember, I don’t remember,’ said Ianto very quietly.




IANTO CAN RIDE A HORSE
ACROSS A BEACH WITHOUT
FEAR OR SHAME
‘You OK?’ asked Jack. Ianto was in the tourist office, diligently tidying away leaflets in the carousel. He hadn’t exactly run out of the Boardroom, but it hadn’t been a slow saunter either.
‘No, Jack,’ sighed Ianto. ‘I’m really, really scared, and I don’t remember a thing about that ferry. If that’s not me, who is it?’
‘Ianto, relax.’ Jack’s voice was soothing. ‘Come on. Let’s talk about this. See what we can sort out.’
‘No,’ said Ianto. ‘I can’t relax. My breasts really ache.’ He popped down a small pile of postcards of interesting Welsh political buildings and rubbed at his left breast. ‘It’s really sore.’
‘Would you like me to rub it better?’ Jack was always smooth.
Ianto glanced sharply at him. ‘Jack, it really itches. Maybe it’s this top. I swear it’s a poly-cotton mix, but the label says no. But then what kind of fool trusts a label? “Dry clean only”! I wasn’t born yesterday.’
‘You are such a princess.’
‘Well yes, obviously.’ Ianto was lost in thought. ‘Geranium leaves are supposed to be good. But that’s for when you’re lactating, I think.’
‘Are you lactating?’ Jack wore an expression of dangerous interest.
‘I assure you, you would be the last person to know if I was.’ Ianto moved into a corner.
‘Is that what’s been different about the coffee?’ Jack laughed.
Ianto snapped the elastic band off of a new batch of leaflets about an organic jam activity centre. He pinged the band expertly at Jack’s ear. The Captain clapped his hands over the ear and gave Ianto a pout.
‘God, you’re moody these days – you’re not… at that time of the month, are you?’
Ianto stared at him, horrified. ‘Oh. I hope not. Am I? How can I tell?’
‘Wikipedia,’ Jack tutted. ‘Wikipedia.’
‘It’s just… Look, can we sort this out before I have to find out?’
Jack reached across the desk and took Ianto’s hand. He led him gently back into the Hub. ‘Come on. Ianto – that ferry. What if you were on it? Gwen’s going through the files, seeing if there’s any reference to you. Think. Has it triggered anything? Is that little pill working?’
Ianto shrugged. ‘Not really. Well, it is, kind of. I’ve been remembering working at a supermarket while I was at university. I can remember the prices of everything. From tinned peas to cereals. Every single brand. It’s not terribly helpful, but it’s allowed me to work out the true rate of inflation.’
‘Can you remember anything more? Think. Ferry. Ever been on the ferry before?’
Ianto shook his head. ‘No. The only time I took the Irish ferry was from Swansea when I was a kid. Mum drank two pints of Guinness on the way over and was sick and she clipped me over the ear when I laughed.’
‘Thank you. That’s charming, but not entirely helpful.’
‘It was cold and windy, and they only had Panda Cola and I wanted a slush puppy.’ Ianto’s face took on a wistful glaze. ‘And… ah.’ His face lit up. ‘The full range of alcopops and a quite unbelievable offer on cocktail jugs. But I’m travelling on my own, and I don’t like saying the names out loud.’ He stole a glance at Jack. ‘Some of them are quite frank, you know.’
‘That they are. People who order Sex On A Beach have clearly never done it.’ Jack cupped a hand to Ianto’s cheek. ‘Well done, Ianto. We’ve a recent memory. Anything more?’ Jack had steered him down to the Boardroom. He signalled Gwen over.
Ianto’s eyes started to cloud over just slightly, and a thought happened. ‘I’m starting to remember something. Oh yes.’
‘What?’
Ianto shuddered. ‘Hen night.’




2. LUCKY DEBBIE’S DUTY-FREE
PURSUIT OF LOVE
IANTO IS HAVING A FLASHBACK
It is last Friday night. Ianto is on a ferry. Ianto is alone at the bar. Ianto is a man. Which, at the time, isn’t surprising, really. But thinking about it now… Anyway, he’s there on the ferry, pulling out of Cardiff Bay, and there’s a little cabin with orange curtains and a stranger snoring in the top bunk, so he’s at the bar. He’s asked them to make him a coffee to keep him alert, and he’s not liking any of it. The beans were burnt, over-diluted, and it’s been sat in the coffee-maker since February. He thinks he may stop being so silly. He’s supposed to blend in, but here he is at the bar in a suit drinking coffee from a tiny cup and saucer and all around him is noise and formica and laughter and music from every nightmare wedding disco in his life.
He’s keeping an eye out. Someone here. Several someones. Someone must be a patient. Someone must be ill. Does anyone look ill? Or out of place? Who are the patients? Who are the doctors? There’s a hen night over there, dressed as nurses, but they’ve also got on devil horns, angel wings and some tinsel. Perhaps it’s all a double bluff? Ah. Cunning.
He looks over at them a bit more. They seem happy and very drunk. They’re all so young and so loud and keep yelling out for Lucky Debbie. He guesses Debbie is getting married.
‘Hello, sailor!’ says a voice at his elbow.
He looks around. She’s quite drunk but very pretty. And wearing L-Plates.
‘Hello.’ He smiles.
‘I’m Debbie,’ she says. She’s trying to attract the attention of the bored bar staff by waving a handful of notes.
‘As in Lucky Debbie?’
She smiles. ‘Yeah. And you?’
‘Ianto. Not lucky at all, really.’
She makes a boo-hoo face at him. ‘Well, we can change all that, you know. Clearly, I’m spoken for – not that that’s gonna stop me licking whipped cream off the nipples of a Chippendale tomorrow night – but lots of my friends are… well, you know… Hen Night. Come on, join us. Hey!’ This to a barman, who appears to be twelve and entirely covered in acne. ‘Four jugs of Screaming Orgasm, One Shitting Whippet, a rack of Zambucas and a pineapple juice.’
‘Pineapple juice?’ asks Ianto.
Debbie leans forward, a bit confidential. ‘There’s a reason why I’m Lucky Debbie. And a lot of it’s to do with pacing myself when I’m around those screaming whores. God, we have a laugh, but sometimes it all gets a bit much. And when you’ve picked vomit out of your hair on the bus home once, it’s kind of… a sign. You want anything?’
‘I can be tempted.’
‘Oh, then you’ll love my friend Kerry. She’s quite formidable when you first meet, but easier than a GCSE.’
‘Ah. I see. Um. Just a diet coke please.’
Debbie laughs. ‘Seriously? The booze is dead cheap on here. It’s not like flying.’
‘I know,’ says Ianto. ‘But, I’ll let you in on a thing. I’m a secret agent for an organisation that’s beyond the Government, above the UN. And I’m on a mission. So I’m not drinking, see.’
Lucky Debbie’s eyes wander away erratically, watching the barman pour skimmed milk over a jugful of ice. The sound system starts to play ‘You’re Beautiful’.
‘Awww…’ says Debbie. ‘I hate this song. But love it at the same time. You know what I mean? Like, I can’t stand hearing it, but I would love someone to sing it to me. I tried explaining this to Phil. My Phil. Lucky Phil, if you like. But he thought I was asking him to do Karaoke. Sad, really. You know what I mean?’
Ianto nods, sipping gratefully at his drink. ‘I dunno,’ he says eventually. ‘I’ve always had time for sincere music.’
Debbie tilts her head on one side. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Help us carry over these drinks and join in the party. With that suit they’ll think you’re a stripper.’
‘Why thank you,’ says Ianto.
Ianto doesn’t know it yet, but he is being watched. He’s trying to blend in, he’s trying not to arouse suspicion, but he is. He noticed that there were two people standing in the shadows of the dock as he got aboard the boat. There was something odd about them. Two men, dressed like sailors out of a perfume commercial, just standing and watching people get on the ferry, smiling blankly.
Oddly, it’s not them who are watching him.
Later, Ianto is sat at a table in the ferry bar. He’s quiet, but he’s watching the room. Around him are the girls. Including Kerry, who keeps giggling and nudging his arm, which just makes Ianto feel a bit bashful. He’s sipping his drink, and he’s watching the girls. They’re having fun. Simple, really drunken fun. It’s been ages since he’s done this. He’s feeling a bit… not left out. Just… sad.
He remembers the last time he went for an evening out. Tosh got tiddly and danced like a dervish. Owen tried not to break anything coming back from the bar with drinks. Gwen was laughing cos she’d recognised her first boyfriend from school (‘Bloody hell, he’s gone bald!’), and Jack – Jack had looked at everyone else in the room then suddenly, on a whim, turned to him and smiled the widest smile in the world. Then Tosh came staggering over, laughing out loud at the word ‘Kajagoogoo’. She tugged at his elbow, insisted he dance.
But Tosh is gone now, and there’s Kerry.
The bar staff are bringing more drinks to the table, somehow managing to keep the tray stable while the room tilts from side to side.
Ianto isn’t feeling sick, which he finds remarkable. And Kerry keeps asking if he wants to dance. He carries on observing the room. An old couple come in and take a glass of wine each to a small table. He watches them. They’re a possibility. There’s another man sitting alone – he’s wearing a terrible jumper and drinking beer from a jug, so possibly Norwegian.
The girls all start to sing along to the music. Ianto thinks, ‘I may be undercover, but no. There are some things I cannot do.’ So, after a wan smile, he leaves them to sing about their umbrella.
The cold night air really, really clears his head. He takes a walk around, heading down a flight of stairs and into a long corridor. It’s quite an old ship and there’s a lot of it that’s like his childhood – full of browns and oranges and formica. There are lots of narrow passages. It’s an old Norwegian ferry, and so there are signs scattered around in English, Norwegian (he guesses) and Welsh. Apart from the bar staff, the crew are spookily absent, so there’s no one to go up to and ask, ‘Excuse me, have you seen any alien technology?’
He passes a few doors marked ‘Staff Only’. But they’re not locked, and just lead to boring corridors without even lino. The ship is lurching alarmingly, and Ianto is finally feeling a bit sick. He can sense the sweat pricking under his clothes. He makes his way to a railing and breathes, breathes, breathes.
He’s got a night on the boat, a day in Dublin, and then a trip back. What if it’s all like this? It’s oddly like an airport departure lounge at sea. Completely anonymous, faceless, the perfect cover. Everyone’s a stranger, everyone’s nobody.
He passes a sign advertising events on the ship. It is, gloriously, an old-fashioned velveteen board onto which little gold block letters have been pinned haphazardly. It tells him that there’ll be some poker in a function room. It mentions that there’s a small private party for someone’s wedding. It welcomes a car dealership who are on a trip. And it says that the cinema, in addition to screening some films from last year, will be showing a ‘health presentation’ in an hour’s time.
‘Health presentation?’ Bingo.
Back in the bar, appearing normal, Ianto sits down next to Lucky Debbie. She’s singing merrily away, and pats him on the arm. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ she says. ‘Kerry really likes you.’ She laughs, her breath rich with alcopop. She digs him in the arm. ‘You can get a snog, cheer you up. Cure the seasick!’
‘Can I?’ Ianto says, trying to sound enthusiastic. Kerry appears to be asleep at the table, slumped face down in a cake, the tinsel from her angel wings hanging loose in the breeze.
‘Yeah – when she wakes up. Bless ’er. I’m having a great night. Are you?’
‘Yes. Yes I am, thank you.’ Actually, yes, I am. Hmm.
‘Why are you on the boat? Business trip? A lonely travelling salesman?’
Ianto shakes his head. ‘No. Like I said – I’m a secret agent.’ Lucky Debbie barks with laughter and clinks his glass. ‘You’re full of it. Bless, what are you like?’
‘Well…’ Ianto demurs. ‘I did see that there’s a seminar on health in the cinema in a bit.’
Debbie makes an exaggerated yawn. ‘Right. And any minute now we’ve got a stripper booked if Kerry’s organised it right. What’d you rather see? A film about vitamins, or an oiled stranger stirring your pint with his tackle?’
Ianto considers. ‘Well, when you put it like that, I’d better just pop along and watch my vitamin film.’
Debbie laughs and nudges him on the shoulder. ‘Stay a bit more, eh? Who knows – Kerry may come round for a bit. Just one more pineapple juice. Stay…’
Ianto checks his watch.
Ianto walks into the cinema as the ship lurches quite alarmingly. He clutches at an old flip-down chair. He manages not to spill any popcorn as he sits down. He suspects that, just slightly, he might appear drunk and harmless. Or, as his auntie used to say, ‘tiddly’. Good.
He sneaks a look around himself. There are a clutch of people in the cinema, which has thin carpets thick with chewing gum and a pervasive, cabbagey smell of popcorn. There is an old couple in a corner. They have brought notepads. There is a bored-looking girl in the second row.
A single man, very thin and quite yellow, is sat on his own, coughing slightly. A little away from him is a bald, fat, middleaged man listening to an iPod and laughing a bit too loudly.
Projected onto the screen are a series of slides advertising amenities on board, special offers at the bar, and a range of interesting snacks available. Music is playing (the theme from Van Der Valk, on pan-pipes). There is an atmosphere of comfortable anticipation. He notices the old couple keep squeezing each other’s hands and bickering quietly. They remind him of his parents – perfectly content in each other’s company, passing the days in a series of complicated little arguments and score-settlings. The old lady reaches over and adjusts her husband’s shirt collar. She looks like the kind of woman ready to pounce on grandchildren with spittle and a tissue at the slightest hint of a stain. Ianto decides he likes them. What treatment are they here for?
He decides the thin, yellow man is dying – probably of about five different things. Perhaps the oldies were just becoming forgetful, or hoping to keep rowing for a few more years. Perhaps the bored girl had just wandered in. The bald, fat man might be looking to lose weight and gain hair. Who knew?
But what about himself? Ianto tries to think of something important he could be in need of curing. Perhaps he could just claim curiosity.
Van Der Valk fades away and the slide of the Balti Buffet chunks off. There is a blue screen, a fizzing, and then, of all wonders, an old VHS tape projects into life. The picture crackles, crackles, wobbles and then slow tracking snow drifts down the screen. With an abrupt final crackle, the feature starts. For a brief instant, Ianto is in darkness and about to see Indiana Jones with his father sat on his right, a small bucket of popcorn balanced between them and an orange ice lolly melting stickily over his knuckles.
The picture goes white, and a reassuring logo of cupped hands rising up around a globe appears. Synthesised music swells out, a tune of energy and warmth that sounds just like (and yet, for copyright reasons completely unlike) the theme from Top Gear.
A smooth voice pours over shots that track across an empty hospital ward, a crowded waiting room, and then through a garden where people of all ages walk in the sun. The tone is warm, upbeat and strident.
‘Welcome to Hope. We’ve got used to living in an age of miracles. Where the cure for everything is just around the corner. But what if you can’t wait until tomorrow? Well, we’re here to tell you about how we can offer you the medicine of tomorrow today. This is not a trial. This is not a placebo. This is real hope, a real cure – the stuff of dreams. What we are offering on this boat is not legal, but it is moral. We refuse to keep back a cure that works. This is not alternative therapy, homeopathy, or moonshine – this is the real thing. We’ve worked on a genetic therapy that offers real, rapid repairs of your DNA…’
At this point the screen moves from sunsets and a hopeful woman boiling a kettle while staring wistfully out of her kitchen window to exciting computer graphics of spinning molecules and then some science stuff of cells dividing. Ianto frowns, and sneaks a glance around the cinema. He was right – someone’s come in. Standing at the back of the room are a man and a woman. Both of them startlingly good looking. They exude health, prosperity and well-being. Their arms are linked and they stand watching the screen with rapt, smiling attention. Ianto recognises the woman from the newspaper article. He immediately decides they are involved. The woman catches his glance and smiles at him. Ianto does what he always does when a beautiful woman smiles at him across a room. He blushes and looks away and feels about fourteen.
‘… Our swift, non-invasive procedure is over in minutes, has no side effects, and the difference can be felt at once. We offer this treatment here on the Hope Boat as it is illegal in Britain. Rejected by the NHS as impossible to test and too expensive, we are only too happy to offer it here, in international waters. Simply sign up after this seminar, and a visit will be made to your cabin in the morning. Then, you can relax and enjoy a day’s sightseeing on the Emerald Isle, followed by a revolutionary cure on the voyage back to Cardiff. It’s that easy. And this treatment can work on all sorts of genetic ailments – from simple male-pattern baldness all the way through to cancer. We can make you better. No,’ a warm smile in the voice, ‘we will make you better.’
The picture changes to a warmly setting sun watched by a couple on a beach. And then fades to black.
The lights come on, together with a slide advertising the wide range of gnomes available in the duty-free shop. People stand up. The old couple look at each other, and squeeze each other’s hands. The beautiful people at the back have already left.
‘Well,’ thinks Ianto, munching on his cold popcorn, ‘that was the fishiest thing in the Irish Sea.’
‘And then?’ asked Gwen.
‘I signed up, and had a lovely day sightseeing,’ said Ianto. ‘I think I took loads of photos on my phone. The weather was a bit drab, but the girls were great fun.’
‘The girls? Lucky Debbie and Easy Kerry.’ Jack’s mockery was fond and only a little bit jealous. ‘Let me guess. You went drinking?’
Ianto shook his head. ‘Actually, we went to the zoo, a nice little tea shop, and Kerry found some rare editions she’d been hunting after for ages in an antiquarian bookstore.’
It’s late afternoon in a Dublin pub with a great view of the rain. Ianto reels. Lucky Debbie grabs hold of him. ‘Easy, tiger!’ She ruffles his hair and helps him sit down. All around him, the wooden panels of the Dublin bar start to spin slowly.
Ianto shakes his head, and scowls. ‘I’m tired.’ He is much drunker than he intended to be.
Debbie grins and pinches his cheek. ‘You pass out, and Kerry will pounce. I’ve experience of that girl. Don’t give in to weakness.’
Ianto runs a hand through his hair. ‘Debbie, I’m hammered. I’m trying to do really important work here, and my head’s pounding. I have no idea what was in the meal we’ve just eaten, but three fingers of scotch aren’t helping anything. I just want a nap.’
Kerry staggers back from the ladies, giggling. There is a small trail of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe. She sits down opposite Ianto with a whumpf! and then pitches gently into an uneasy sleep on an open packet of pork scratchings.
Ianto squints a little to bring the table into focus. Spread across it are the slumbering remains of Debbie’s hen party. Through a forest of half-finished pints and abandoned pies he can see Debbie, who winks at him. ‘You’ll be fine, doll. What is this top secret mishun? You really a spy?’
Ianto shakes his head. ‘Oh no. I’m just the office boy, really. But… you know… I’m keeping an eye out. For a friend. Well, not really a friend – more a bastard, really. But he died. And it’s easy to remember someone fondly if they’re dead. Especially when they died twice, if you’re counting. Twice dead bastard.’ He giggles.
Debbie is nodding with the slightly glassy look of someone who isn’t even listening.
Ianto ventures on. ‘And Owen thought there was something wrong about the boat. And he was right – I think there’s some alien medical procedure taking place on that boat. And that’s never good. And I’m supposed to stay sober on a mission. But then I think I’m being followed. So, I decide to blend in by getting drunk with you. Which may not have been the wisest thing. So it’s Ianto Jones, secret agent, saving the Cardiff Ferry from an alien invasion, just a little bit legless. So yes, I guess in many ways it’s oh dear.’ He takes an ill-advised swig of his pint and grimaces. ‘Oh, this is going down like sick.’ He rests the glass on the table hurriedly. ‘Anyway – I’m very important. I’m saving Cardiff.’
Debbie nods again and pats his hand. ‘Phil was shagging Kerry a couple of months ago,’ she says, quietly.
Many hours later, they stagger onto the boat for the journey back. Kerry is throwing up into a bin to the disgust of customs officials. Debbie has a spring in her step and flashing plastic devil horns in her hair. Ianto is carrying a traffic cone.
He makes it back to his tiny little orange cabin and slumps down on the lower bunk, the traffic cone resting unsteadily by him. He sinks his head in his hands. ‘I am so hammered,’ he thinks sadly. ‘I’ve had a brilliant weekend, clearly. I haven’t let my hair down in ages. But I haven’t really saved the world.’
He wraps his arms round the traffic cone, and settles down for a sleep. At no point does he even notice the envelope resting on the floor.
The knock on the door wakes him. It is night and the throbbing of the engines pounds in his head. ‘Whu?’ he manages, unsteadily getting to his feet. He is praying it isn’t Debbie. Or, dear god forbid, Kerry.
Instead it is a small, dapper little man in a steward’s uniform. He has a drooping orange moustache that makes him look pleasantly like Asterix. ‘Sir,’ says the man with the perfect English of a Norwegian. ‘You are awaited in the Kielty cabin.’
‘Ah,’ says Ianto. ‘Thank you. Do you mind if I…?’ He gestures to the sink, where he splashes some cold water on his face and straightens his tie. Oh god, he feels awful. He grabs the complimentary bottle of water from the washstand and starts to drink it as they walk. His mouth tastes terrible as though… oh no. Has he been smoking? He really can’t remember. Lisa will kill him.
As they walk his brain does three bits of thinking. The first pieces of thinking it has done for almost twenty-four hours. The first thought is ‘Kielty’ – the name was mentioned in the newspaper story. Ross Kielty had apparently been a passenger, and spoke in glowing terms of the treatment. In the same article… something else familiar. The picture. He’d seen someone else in the picture. He tries to remember who. But it now seems obvious that the whole Hope Boat is an elaborate cover for something else.
The steward leads him to a door and then melts away. Ianto sadly swallows the last of the bottled water and knocks. A quite beautiful woman opens the door and smiles kindly.
‘Mr Jones?’ she says, holding out her hand. Her handshake is easy and strong. ‘Thank you for coming. My name is Christine. Do take a seat.’
He steps into the cabin – which seems to be the ferry’s equivalent of a stateroom. It is still the size of a small caravan, but feels almost palatial.
The woman, amazingly dressed and terribly calm, sits down opposite him, and smiles. She is half of the couple who had come into the cinema late. She is professionally friendly. ‘Now, briefly tell me what can we do for you?’
‘Ah,’ says Ianto. ‘Can you cure my hangover?’
Christine’s laugh is a sharp little rattle. ‘Oh, we can cure a lot more than that, Mr Jones. What was it that you came to see us about? Surely something more serious?’
Ianto sighs. ‘I don’t know. I read about the treatments offered on this boat, and I wondered… well. You see, in the last year I’ve lost my girlfriend and two friends. They all died. And everyone thinks very sad, but move on. But I can’t. I’ll be at work, and I’ll remember a conversation I had with her, or a row with Owen, just a little thing, and I’ll be stuck. I want that to stop. I know you can cure my body – but can you cure my mind? Can you make it so that I never think about any of them ever again?’
Christine reaches out a hand that brushes his lightly. Her smile is wan and melancholy. ‘Oh, Mr Jones. I’m sorry for your loss… deeply and sincerely so.’ A heavy breath, and then more warmth in the smile. ‘But you’ll be pleased to hear that we can help.’
‘Really?’ Ianto, just for an instant, thinks how nice it would be – never to think about Lisa back in his flat. To be able to water Owen’s plants without remembering him. Or dismantling Tosh’s complicated analyses of alien technology – studies that would never be finished, secrets that would never be unlocked. Just forget about them and move on.
Christine leans forward. ‘It won’t take long, and I promise it won’t hurt.’
‘Will it be now?’
She taps his wrist again. ‘So eager! But no – we prefer to have a pre-treatment meeting. Just to screen people, to make sure they’re really happy to take part and that they understand everything. And, also, there is the small matter of payment up front.’ Her smile assures him that, if it were up to her, there wouldn’t be such a thing as payment.
‘Oh, of course!’ Ianto has the bank details of a Torchwood holding account. He passes them over, and she hands him a little slip of paper, discreetly folded in half. He lifts it up, and looks at the amount.
For a second he forgets how tired and drunk he is and instead stares aghast at the figure on the slip of paper. These people could clearly charge anything they wanted. He guesses running a ferry as a disguise can’t come cheap. But still – this is…
He manages a rueful smile. ‘It’ll be worth it in the long run.’
‘Of course,’ Christine lays a reassuring hand around his shoulder. ‘Once these bank details have cleared, we’ll contact you later tonight with a slot for treatment. It should only take a quarter of an hour. Shouldn’t hold up your fun with the hen party!’ She nudges his arm and laughs warmly. Ianto returns her smile weakly. She’s just confirmed that he’s been watched closely ever since he got on the ship.
‘What do you use?’ he asks, suddenly.
Christine doesn’t even look startled. Her voice has an easy, practised flow to it.
‘There are various advanced gene therapies that have been developed which, for one reason or another, just aren’t ever going to be practical for conventional medical care to offer. Too expensive for the NHS, impossible to obtain through other channels. My husband and I have found a way of making these therapies available easily. We use a method of delivery that’s tailored to each subject. Our primary concerns are your health and well-being. We wouldn’t proceed if there was any risk to you, or any chance of the procedure failing. You are in safe hands.’
‘Well,’ thinks Ianto. ‘That was all guff. Deliberately reassuring flannel.’
He makes a face. ‘But are there any injections? I’ve always hated those.’
Christine nods. ‘Oh, me too! But rest assured – this is far less invasive and far more effective. We don’t even need to give you an anaesthetic. Less fuss than a filling. Can you believe it?’
Right, thought Ianto. That does it – they’ve definitely nicked something alien. Miracle alien cures are never good.
He tries to leave her cabin without looking furtive and strides down the corridor, fingering his phone. No signal. He waits round the corner and then, when all is quiet, slips past Christine’s cabin to the one next door, and listens quietly at the door. He can hear a man’s soothing tones and a woman crying quietly. He stands back in the shadows and waits.
Eventually the door opens, and the very handsome man who’d been with Christine stands on the threshold, ushering two figures out. It is the old couple he’d noticed earlier. They are clasping each other and smiling. The old woman has tears running down her smiling cheeks.
‘Now, you’ve nothing to worry about – just go and have a nice little lie-down, and by the time we pull in to harbour, you should notice some dramatic improvements. Just relax and feel the Parkinson’s melt away. No, don’t thank me any more – just settle back and enjoy the next few years together.’
The woman turns and grips Ross Kielty in a fierce embrace. She starts to cry again. Her husband gently takes her shoulders and leads her away. Ianto can hear them laughing as they walk off.
Ross stands on the threshold, smiling. He is holding something small and blue in his hands. And then turns back into the room and closes the door.
Curing Parkinson’s? Oh dear.
Ianto is nervous on the deck. There’s a chill in the air and he’s not sure if he’s been followed. But there is definitely something up. He walks towards the bar and can see people spilling out of it onto the deck. He can still hear little gusts of music from the bar as people push through the doors. Everyone is standing, looking out to sea, or pointing vaguely with their camera phones.
He glances out, trying to see what they can see – and all he notices is the distant, distant glow of Cardiff, and then higher up, a dancing spot of light, like a shooting star, but one that slices across the sky towards them, only to vanish momentarily before sparkling up again.
‘It’s the Northern Lights!’ he hears someone shout, only to hear them laughed down. Gradually, with muttering, gasping, camera snapping and moaning they realise that the boat is surrounded by a perfect circle of fog, a fog that blots out Cardiff and the stars, just leaving a little twinkling globe that flickers closer and closer. There is nervous excitement, a definite feeling of anticipation. Ianto has no idea what the light is – he just knows it is linked to whatever is in the cabin, and the mysterious figures he saw in the Bay before he left. This is it. He reaches for his phone. Still no signal. And then, with a sputter, no battery.
He looks out across the deck, as the little twinkling fireflies of camera phones snuff out one by one.
Oh god. No witnesses.
The light comes closer and closer.
At first like fireworks – a bright ball of light arcs twice over the boat. Then Lucky Debbie runs up and grabs Ianto’s hand. ‘It’s still! The sea!’ she hisses. All around them, the waves settle flat, bowing down like lions before the light.
Then comes the sound – a roar of an ancient horn, like the loudest, most exciting, most frightening thing Ianto has ever heard.
For a second, it is dark. Very, very dark. And utterly silent.
And then the light comes back, a giant ball that sweeps over the boat, and then, with the sounding again of that awful horn, it splits into two, two balls of fire that circle round and round the deck.
Then the horn sounds a third time. It doesn’t die away, but is followed by a deep boom – the shattering thud of something tearing deep underneath the water. There are screams from all around, but Ianto barely hears them. ‘Oh god,’ he thinks, realising how alone they are. In the distance, he can’t even see Cardiff any more. Just this fog bank. Blocking them off from the world.
Something bad is going to happen – he knows it, feeling as afraid as he felt when in trouble at school, when he went on a date knowing he was going to be dumped, or when he’d gone back into Torchwood to find Lisa. Something terrible is going to happen and there is nothing he can do to stop it. No weapons, no technology, no Toshiko, no Captain Jack. Just Ianto Jones against this.
The balls of light arc over again, and with a scream of tin, sheets of steel rip up from the deck and flutter into the sea.
The shouts from the bar are louder now, all the more so for the completely still sea. The siren wail of the horn finally fades like a wounded beast and the balls of light glow and descend, floating along the deck until they are just above the surface. Dancing inside each sphere is… a shape. And he can hear laughter.
The spheres contract, melt, each shape flowing into a human form carved out of sun. The two figures stride forward, their feet just failing to touch the ground. One turns to the other. It speaks, a voice thundering and echoing like continents slapping together.
‘We are here for one thing. And those who have it know what that is.’
‘Give it up!’ bellows the other. ‘Bring it out now.’
‘Please,’ the other sighs, like an avalanche.
The other stretches out a hand, and light boils across the deck, wrapping around the mast, and then whipping across the lifeboats, shattering each one in a cloud of burning splinters. People start to scream. One of the figures turns, a hand forming a gentle sssshing motion against its glowing face. The first steps forward, past Ianto. Ianto feels a warmth like a furnace flicker across his cheek. ‘You have two minutes.’
A pause. Then the other figure turns and steps almost shiftily towards the passengers who bunch up against the advancing heat. It speaks, its voice lower, more discreet.
‘Anyone got a fag?’
What? Ianto is moved and not surprised when Lucky Debbie steps forward, fumbling in her handbag for a Superking. The figure reaches out a hand and takes it, leaning over her. ‘Thanks,’ it says, its voice dropping to almost a whisper.
Somehow it holds the cigarette in its glowing fingers, and then lets the end spark into life by itself. It pauses, leaning closer, conspiratorially. ‘This had better not be menthol.’
‘No,’ says Debbie, very quietly and firmly.
The figure takes a drag. ‘Lovely. Thank you. You’ll be the last to die.’
Debbie nods, but her face is set into the Swansea-girl look which says, ‘You’re not all that.’
The figure strides above the deck, gently smoking away, while the other rises up, expanding and pulsing dangerously.
‘They’ve not come out.’
‘No, I know that.’ There’s a petulant note. Almost disappointed. ‘I’d expected better of them.’ A long sigh that rolls out across the sea. ‘Fine.’ Both fists burst into giant balls of flame that lash out, smashing into the bar, scattering tables and glasses and people. There are screams and cries and the smell of burning nylon carpet.
‘Do you hear us, Christine and Ross?’ boom both of the figures together, their voices louder than a storm. ‘We’re getting violent. People are going to die soon. You’d better not be hiding, cos we’re going to put on a bloody great show.’
‘You selfish pricks,’ snaps the smoking figure, bitterly.
The shapes come down, floating in front of Ianto and Debbie. Ianto can feel the hiss of the air starting to boil, can see those fists split and crack out into flaming, angry spheres. He feels Debbie tense up next to him – brave up to the end. Not so Lucky Debbie, he thought sadly. Then, swallowing, he opens his mouth.
‘I…’ His voice vanishes.
One of the figures flashes up next to him, fire scorching Ianto’s face. As it stares into him with eyes of coal, he feels his flesh begin to smoulder and burn. He cries out slightly.
‘Yes?’
‘I…’ He finds his voice, and is saddened to hear it is a yelp. ‘I know who you’re looking for. I can take you to them.’
The scorching heat retreats. Ianto opens his eyes. He sees Debbie give him a look – a look that mixes hope and relief with… betrayal? He shrugs.
‘Go on, then!’ The figure shrinks to almost human size, and lays a hand on Ianto’s shoulder. It jerks its neck at its companion. ‘Come on, you.’
And Ianto heads down into the hold. Around him, he can hear the plates of the ship ticking and pinging like an old clock, and see them bulging in and out, as though somehow confining these creatures in a small space. Their presence is too big.
‘Am I doing the right thing?’ he thinks, stepping carefully down the corridor. On the one hand, probably not. Probably there is no right thing to do at this point. Whatever, he has the feeling people are going to die. It is just a question of how many, and why. It is the kind of awkward thing he usually leaves up to Jack. After all, if you don’t really sleep, you can’t have nightmares about your mistakes now, can you?
Ianto feels his face smarting and burning. He knows he’ll need treatment for the wound. But he doesn’t dare draw attention to it. He keeps silent, marching ahead of the two balls of energy, feeling them snap and hiss with energy like steaks on a fire.
In the distance there is a loud, dull explosion, and the ship suddenly tilts. Ianto grabs a rail before he falls back onto the creatures.
‘What was that?’ snaps one.
‘God knows,’ says the other with a laugh. ‘Hardly know my own strength. I think this boat’s buggered, though.’
Ianto feels a shove in his shoulders. ‘Then come on. Get a move on.’
The cabin is empty, as he expects. He turns around to give an explanation, and a flaming hand slaps across his face, knocking him into the wall. He looks up to see one of the glowing figures standing over him, spitting flames.
‘They were here!’ he protests. ‘I think your arrival might have tipped them off.’
One of the figures turns to the other, and whispered, ‘See? I said – softly, softly. But no – all hallelujah and fireballs. Brilliant.’
The other hisses back. ‘And? It just means we’ll have to take this boat apart until we find them.’ The light around him flares, and Ianto feels the air in the room become suddenly stifling. Sweating, he runs a finger around his collar.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘There’s somewhere else.’
At first, the cinema seems empty. The only lights are little twinkling halogen landing strips along the floor. As soon as the figures step in behind Ianto, the room is lit with a crackling firelight.
It makes the room look even eerier as the shadows of the chairs dance up and down across each other. The dead acoustics of the cinema wrap themselves around Ianto. All he can hear is the sound of the two walking bonfires behind him.
One of them speaks softly. ‘Ross? Christine? Are you here?’
There is no answer.
It speaks again. ‘Come on. You’re right to be scared. We are furious. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be reasoned with.’
The other figure snorts derisively.
‘You know we want it back. You know that it’s not yours. You know that you can’t control it. We can, and we’ll look after it. The device is not a toy. People are going to start dying, and it’ll be all your fault. Just give it back to us.’
The other figure joins in, its voice harsh. ‘You know what we are. You’ve known us for ages. We’ve found you. You can try and run – but we’ll only find you again. And maybe, just maybe, if you give up this time, no one will die. Come on out.’
There is a pause. Ianto suddenly senses someone near him breathing out.
With a flick of a seat, Christine stands up in the darkness, cradling something close to her chest. She looks terrified.
‘Oh god,’ she says.
Ianto steps towards her, but she motions him away, and walks haltingly towards the two balls of light. They flow towards her. She gestures out with no, not a gun, but the pebble thing Ianto had glimpsed earlier.
One of the figures laughs. ‘Oh, it’s not a weapon, Christine. It’s told you that several times in the last minute, I expect. You can’t make it do anything it doesn’t want to do. Just give it to us, please. We can’t take it from you. You know that.’
‘I just want…’ she begins, and then looks at Ianto. ‘I’m so scared.’
‘You have every right to be, Christine,’ says the figure on the right. ‘Just give us it back, though, and it’ll all be OK. Won’t it?’ It turns to the other figure who doesn’t speak, but nods slightly. ‘See?’
They both glide closer, the flickering light casting dancing shadows across her frightened face.
‘I don’t want to,’ says Christine, firmly, holding out an arm to ward them off.
A glowing hand shoots out, grabbing Christine’s. It starts to burn instantly and she screams, but the hand doesn’t move.
‘See Christine?’ The figure’s voice is soothing. ‘Can you remember when you were first burned? Was it when you were a child? And your mother ran your hand under the cold tap? What felt worse? The hot…’ Suddenly the flames burn blue. ‘Or the cold?’
Christine whimpers.
‘Help me!’ she cries to Ianto again. But Ianto can’t move, can’t really think.
‘Where’s Ross?’ asks the creature. ‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ she hisses. She shakes her head, her teeth clenched. ‘I lost him. I think he’s run away. I would tell you – oh god. I’d tell you.’ She starts to cry.
‘He always did panic,’ sighs the fireball. ‘You married a coward, Christine. He’s left you all alone. He’s left you to burn.’
She shakes her head again. Ianto can smell the room. It’s hot and reeks of paraffin and scalded nylon and cooking meat and burning hair.
‘You’re all alone.’ Christine’s hand is released. As Ianto watches, she staggers back, holding up her hand, suddenly healed. He blinks. He can still smell roasting pork.
And then her hand is grasped again. She screams out.
‘We can carry this on. Like an old Greek torture – those broken heroes who spend eternity growing new eyes only to have vultures pluck them out again. We can do that – here in this little … hey, it is a cinema, isn’t it?’
Christine nods, gasping.
‘Nice. Anyway – we can keep going for hours. The burning, the healing. But you have to give it back to us. You must surrender it. And then it’ll stop.’
‘I can’t give it up. I can’t. Take it from me! Please.’
A sad shake of a burning head. ‘We can’t. You know we can’t. If it doesn’t want to go, you either have to give it up, or we take it from your body once the spirit has left it.’
Christine starts to sob uncontrollably, but the burning continues.
Ianto looks around, desperately. By trying really hard, he just moves his left foot, slightly.
‘We know what will happen. The fire will tear your body apart, as fast as the device can cure you. It’s frantically trying to remember how you look, even now. It’s desperate to keep you perfect – but how long can it keep pumping out that perfect genetic pattern?’
The figure steps closer, its hand sliding further up her arm. Christine lets out a long wail, and starts to sink to the floor.
‘Make it stop, Christine, please,’ says the figure as smoke curls up from her shirt. ‘This isn’t how we operate. But you’ve stolen from us… and this is nothing to the harm you’ve caused already. Please.’
‘No!’ she screams. And she carries on screaming. And, as she turns towards Ianto, suddenly her hair catches fire. And oh god then—
He catches something. It’s been thrown at him.
What the what the what the? says a voice in his head. Jack’s voice?
And suddenly Ianto feels very strange.
And Ianto is running, and all around him he can sense the boat being torn apart. The shrieking of metal, the dull snapping of wood, and an alarming lurching sensation.
He is running through the car bay, rolling over and over as cars and lorries tip and spin, churning in the water like socks in a washing machine. He sees a Smart car hurled through the air, burning as it crashes against the concrete wall. Petrol pours out from it, igniting and sputtering against the water, racing towards him. He rolls down, his face smacking against the wet concrete. He catches a brief glimpse of a burning figure striding towards him, and then he is off again, running up tiny metal stairs, feeling the sting of the sea air on his face.
The boat is tumbling from side to side. He sees Lucky Debbie standing there on the deck. She is looking at him. Somehow magnificent in her nurse’s uniform and L-plate and devil’s horns. Trying to work out whether or not to jump into the sea. Around her cables snap in the air like whips. And then she is gone.
He knows he has to get off the boat. He knows what he has to do. And he is suddenly scrambling over the railings. He hears shouts behind him. And he jumps.
A second in the air. All cold. He looks down and the sea rushes up like a sheet of glass. And then a sharp feeling as he slices through it.
And now…
It was dark in the Boardroom. Jack and Gwen sat, looking at Ianto. He held his hand up, marvelling that it was a woman’s hand. Gwen smiled at him fondly, and gave him a squeeze. Jack just looked at him, wearing that calmly interested expression.
‘So,’ said Ianto. ‘That was all a bit of a rush, wasn’t it? That’s all I can remember. Oh, apart from getting stuck on a very long coach journey when I was a student.’ He pouted slightly. ‘And you’re sure it’s true?’
Gwen nodded, sadly. ‘The ferry was damaged. There were quite a few survivors, but all of them were in shock. I’ve spent days talking to them, but it just didn’t seem very Torchwood. No one’s said anything about this. No one mentioned weird medicine, strange devices or talking flame. They just said the boat hit something and started to sink. Not even that much, really. They all just seemed shocked and lucky to be alive. Seems like someone altered their memories for us, which is curious.’ Gwen clicked her mouse, and the passenger list swam across the wall. ‘But not the passenger list. And Ross and Christine Kielty are listed as passengers.’ She pulled up a couple of pictures.
‘Hey, Christine,’ said Jack.
Ianto looked at the picture, and nodded. ‘That’s me. That’s her. She died. Burning like a candle. And whatever she gave me…’ Ianto shook his head. ‘I must have lost it in the water. I don’t remember how I got back to my flat. I just don’t.’
He sat, staring at his reflection in the expensive polished wood. Even now it just seemed wrong.
Gwen was positive, encouraging. ‘Well, it was the device that changed you. Maybe her husband’s got something that can change you back. If he made it off that boat. If he’s alive.’
Ianto looked at the picture of Ross Kielty. Really looked at it. ‘He is. I saw him. The other night. He was on St Mary Street. He was shocked to see me.’
‘Finally!’ Jack grinned. ‘We’re finally getting somewhere. This is what we do. A bit of CCTV, a bit of digging – and we’ll find out where Mr Kielty’s gone to ground.’
‘But Jack,’ said Ianto, ‘why did I hear your voice on the boat? And what about those fireballs? Where do they fit in?’
‘Oh, we’ll deal with them,’ said Jack. ‘Great balls of fire? It’s what I live for.’