TWENTY-SIX
She got the eight fifty out of Cardiff Central, Platform 1.
It was a dull morning, with a flat sky that teasingly promised to clear and warm up. Gwen was a little tired, but she soldiered on, invigorated by a sense of purpose.
She got herself a window seat and settled in. Almost three and a half hours to Manchester Piccadilly. She’d bought a coffee and a breakfast roll from a Baguette-away on the concourse, and a paper and some magazines from the news-stand. She sat back to read the headlines. Someone shouted something outside, and coach doors double-slammed.
After a few minutes, the train started to move, just a silent, sliding motion. A faint vibration made her steady her coffee cup.
The speaker crackled some kind of ‘welcome, here’s the buffet’ announcement that she didn’t properly listen to. The carriage was half-full, and no one seemed likely to invade her space.
The speed picked up. Suburban east Cardiff toiled by like a laboriously moved stage backdrop. The sun came out for about ten minutes. She had a go at the quick crossword.
Bored with that, she sat back and put on her MP3 player. Random shuffle. She looked around the carriage, amusing herself by watching the other passengers: a middle-aged man in a suit, reading a broadsheet; two young student travellers with bright cagoules and Gore-Tex backpacks that kept impeding people on their way down the aisle; a young mother with a small boy, who was playing with some toys as she passed him grapes from a Tupperware box; a nice-looking young bloke, who seemed intent on snoozing; a trendy type with fashionable specs working on a laptop; a nondescript guy reading a novel. A young woman who thought a lot of herself, texting on a fancy clam-shell phone; another middle-aged man who looked like a teacher or an academic, working through a sheaf of documents with a pen; two matronly women in expensive twin-sets, travelling together, chatting animatedly.
Her MP3 randomly selected ‘Coming Up For Air’. She looked out of the window at the trees flashing by and thought about what she’d say to Rhys.
When she’d had enough of that, she picked up one of the magazines she’d bought.
James wasn’t entirely sure what Gwen had meant by ‘later’, so he assumed the evening. A plan to welcome her with a really pull-out-the-stops, home-cooked meal formed in his mind. He liked cooking, and he figured he’d get a lot of boyfriend points with a gesture like that.
He left the flat and set off on foot, intending to pick up some bits and pieces at the upmarket deli and grocers he liked to use. It was a good walk – he usually drove – but the sun was coming out, he was in no rush, and he felt he needed the exercise and the air.
His head was a little muddy. He’d lolled around in bed far too long, and polishing off a whole bottle the night before had been a mistake, nothing paracetamol wouldn’t cure.
Jack, Ianto and Owen were arranged in a little, conspiratorial huddle in the work station area of the Hub when Toshiko arrived. They all looked at her and nodded hello. Owen looked especially sour. He yawned.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, taking off her coat.
‘Sorry to drag you in, Tosh,’ said Jack, not sounding sorry at all. ‘A little situation has come up.’
‘Situation?’ she asked.
‘A confluence of events,’ said Jack. ‘Pull up a chair. I’ve already run through this with Owen and Ianto.’
‘Where are Gwen and James?’ Toshiko asked, sitting down.
‘I haven’t called them,’ said Jack. ‘Not yet. You’ll see why.’
Toshiko glanced at Owen. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘Just listen to Jack,’ said Owen, darkly.
‘OK,’ said Jack. He held up the black tile. ‘This has been doing weird things all night. The pattern’s changed a couple of times. You got to figure that we’re on some kind of countdown now.’
‘But still nothing on any of our systems?’ asked Toshiko.
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Nothing we can see,’ said Owen, pointedly. Toshiko didn’t fully understand the reference.
Jack put the tile down. ‘I was kicking my heels here, trying to come up with something and failing miserably. I got hung up on the idea that maybe one of the events that’s occurred recently, maybe in the last week or two, might hold a clue. After all, there’s been plenty of wild stuff going down. I went through everything I could think of, every angle, every loose end.’
‘And?’ asked Toshiko.
‘I found this,’ said Jack.
‘We don’t know that it’s connected to your doohickey in any way,’ Owen objected.
‘True, we don’t,’ Jack replied, tapping some keys on the nearby work station, and angling the flat screen so that Toshiko could see it, ‘but even if it’s not, this is a doozy. It’ll roll your socks right up and down.’ He looked at Toshiko. ‘Figuratively.’
Fuzzy black and white footage appeared on the screen, jerking frame by frame. Jack skipped through the time code with a blurting whizz or two of the picture.
‘What am I seeing?’
‘A little data-capture I carried out last night. This is the mini-mart in Pontcanna on Thursday. Security-cam footage taken at the time James and I cornered your con man.’
Toshiko leaned forward. ‘What exactly am I looking at?’
‘You’re looking out across the checkout lanes towards the store front,’ said Jack, freezing frame and pointing, ‘from above and to the right of the lanes. These are just shoppers here, OK. Checkout girl, checkout girl, checkout girl... OK. Let’s punch it.’
The footage began to play in real time. There was no sound.
‘There’s our guy. He’s trying to get out. The tubby guy there with the shopping cart has blocked the lane. And there’s James. He’s running up, he’s spotted the guy. The guy sees him. Decides to use the tubby guy’s cart as a weapon and... bingo.’
‘Whoa!’ said Toshiko. ‘Run that back. Did I see that right?’
Jack stepped the footage back and replayed. ‘Our guy rams with the cart and... pow!’
‘That’s not possible,’ said Toshiko.
‘And yet,’ said Jack.
‘How?’ she asked, looking up from the frozen screen image at Jack.
‘I’ve always envied Captain Analogy’s upper body strength,’ Jack said.
‘Stop making fun,’ said Toshiko.
‘Maybe the trolley wasn’t as heavily loaded as it looks on the footage,’ said Owen, ‘just empty boxes.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Nobody, and I mean nobody, slings a shopping cart the entire length of a store, not even an empty one, and especially not by gripping it at the top. You could shove it a fair way, tip it over, sure, and if you got under it, you could probably lift it and toss it a few yards, but not what we just saw.’
‘PCP, something like that,’ said Toshiko.
Owen shook his head. ‘He was clean as a whistle on the labs, and don’t you think we’d have noticed if our mate was off his chuff on hard drugs? So off his chuff, I’m saying, that he’s experiencing freakazoid physiological effects?’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Toshiko.
‘Don’t say anything,’ said Jack. ‘I got something else to show you.’
The snack trolley made its way down the aisle.
Gwen sat up and looked for some change. The rocking of the train was making her sleepy, and there was still more than half the journey to go. As she reached over, one of the magazines slipped off her lap.
She bent over to pick it up. She wanted to take it with her. There was a whole feature on Glenn Robbins and her career after Eternity Base that James would want to read. She folded the magazine open on the right page to remind herself.
The trolley was taking ages to arrive. It was having trouble negotiating its way past the students’ backpacks. They were getting up to move them, apologising.
Come on, I need bad train coffee, Gwen thought.
She noticed the small boy with his mother again and smiled. He was playing with a bright, plastic Andy Pinkus toy.
She thought about James. That put a bigger smile on her face. It was kind of sweet. She’d only been away a few hours, and she missed him, really missed him.
On cue, the MP3 offered up another track by Torn Curtain.
‘Coffee, tea, madam?’ the snack girl asked.
‘Sir?’
James realised he was being spoken to. He frowned. On the other side of the seafood chiller counter, the assistant was holding a taped-up plastic bag towards him.
‘Your fish, sir.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry, do you want this, sir?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ He took the heavy little pack and put it in his basket. Where had his mind been? What had he been thinking about? He’d just completely zoned out in the middle of the shop.
He thought the walk might have helped his head, but it was worse. He had a pain behind his eyes, and his ears felt as if they were slightly blocked up. Everything had a boxy, hollow sound to it.
He wandered on through the shop, ignoring the expensive, pre-packed dinners with their enticing photos. Veg, that’s what he needed.
Why was that man looking at him?
Oh, he wasn’t.
He’d seemed familiar though. Where had he seen him before?
James drifted into the fruit and veg section. What did he need? He couldn’t remember what he was intending to cook. He had to turn the package over in his basket to read the label.
Sea bass. Right, sea bass. He needed tarragon, shallots, garlic, some new potatoes, some mangetout.
He pulled a plastic bag off the roll, and went over to the trays of garlic bulbs to select a couple. They looked good. The skins were the colour of vellum. They were some special quality strain of garlic, according to the label.
Someone reached in past him into the tray to pick up some garlic. James looked down at the invading hand. That was just rude. People could wait just a moment, couldn’t they?
There was no one beside him. The hand was his hand. He stared down at it. It didn’t look right at all. He didn’t recognise it.
James shook himself. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The hand was still there. It didn’t look like his, but it was. The fingers wiggled. It made a fist. He could feel its attachment to him.
‘This is stupid,’ he said out loud.
It was stupid. It was his hand, all right. Absolutely. There was nothing funny about it. It looked perfectly normal.
James realised he was breathing quite rapidly. The pain behind his eyes had grown a little sharper. He grabbed two bulbs of garlic, bagged them quickly, and dropped them into his basket. What else did he need? Apples. Apples? Apples. He picked up a packet of conference pears and put them in his basket with the garlic and the fish.
Why was that man looking at him?
Where had he seen that man before?
Ianto opened the box.
‘What’s that?’ asked Toshiko. She was very unsettled.
Ianto took the object out of the box.
‘It’s the side-arm Owen was carrying a week ago Thursday,’ said Jack, ‘the night we went after the Amok.’
‘It looks broken,’ said Toshiko. The weapon was buckled, as if it had been twisted in a vice.
‘You may recall,’ said Jack, ‘in all the hullabaloo, Owen ended up pointing it at James.’
‘To be fair, I wasn’t quite myself,’ said Owen.
‘No one saw what happened after that, but James managed to disarm Owen, grab the Amok, and get it contained.’
‘OK,’ said Toshiko. That agreed with her memory of events.
‘The gun got damaged in the struggle,’ said Jack.
‘It’s beyond repair,’ said Ianto. ‘I put it in the Armoury. I was intending to break it down and dispose of it.’
‘When I showed Ianto the mini-mart footage of James’s cart-tossing world record, he went to fetch it. It had been bugging him. Look at it close, Tosh. Real close.’
She took the broken weapon from Ianto and turned it over to examine it. ‘It’s been sheared around. Twisted. What could do that?’
‘What do those grooves suggest?’ asked Jack. ‘What do they look like to you?’
‘Well, fingermarks,’ said Toshiko, ‘but that’s just—’
Jack took the gun from her. He punched something else up on screen. ‘They’re fingermarks, all right. Fingers pressed into the steel so deep, they actually left prints in the metal. We got a match. Want to guess who with?’
‘Oh God, please don’t say James,’ Toshiko answered.
Despite the coffee, Gwen had nodded off for a bit. She woke up, and had to remind herself why she was on a train. She was going to Manchester, to see some bloke. That was it.
She felt like crap.
The doze hadn’t left her with a headache exactly, but she felt genuinely odd. It was a nagging, empty sensation, as if she’d lost something.
She looked around. Had she lost something? Had she mislaid something before she’d dropped off? A pen, her MP3, her magazines, her wallet, maybe that was it.
No. None of those things.
Then why did she feel quite so hollow? It felt for all the world like a sudden, plunging dip in blood sugar. She had a sort of craving, a yearning to get some unknown, unidentifiable substance back into her system. The simple lack of it was making her suffer withdrawal.
She was forty-five minutes out of Manchester Piccadilly. She decided to get a cookie or some chocolate from the buffet, maybe a tea as well.
She got up. She felt light-headed and empty-sick. The train was too hot, the two chattering women in the twin-sets too loud, and the girl on the clam-shell too obnoxious.
The small boy, travelling with his mum, looked up from his toys at Gwen as she edged by.
‘All right?’ she fake-smiled at him.
She certainly wasn’t.
Why was that man looking at him? That oh-so-familiar man?
I’m just being paranoid, James thought. He’s just got one of those faces, and I’m in one of those moods.
He started heading to the Please Pay Here.
There was the man again. No, it was a different man. This one was dark haired, not blond, and was wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt instead of a suit. But he also looked uncannily familiar.
It’s just going to be one of those days, James told himself. Just face it.
The stab behind his eyes was back. Sounds all around him seemed boxier than ever. He looked down into his basket, to check he was done. It was full of stuff. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d put most of it in his basket. Tippex? A globe artichoke? Cat treats? Really?
He looked up in slight panic, wondering if anyone in the Saturday crowd could tell he was having a quiet breakdown in the middle of the shop. He saw the dark-haired man in the black jeans.
The man made eye contact with him.
James turned and headed for the exit. He was walking quite fast, on the very edge of actually trotting.
‘Excuse me? Sir?’ a shop assistant called out.
He realised the basket of unpaid-for goods was still swinging off his arm. He threw it aside and started to run in earnest. There was some commotion behind him at the disturbance. His basket landed on the floor, and spilled out his sea bass and his packet of geranium seeds and his block of marzipan and his hair-clips and his conference pears and all the other things he had collected.
‘So, what are we saying?’ asked Toshiko.
‘James is not James,’ said Jack. ‘James is in danger. We’re in danger. Something’s happened to the real James. This James is an impostor. This is the real James, but something seriously crazy is happening to him. This has something to do with the alarm. This has nothing to do with the alarm.’ He looked at the other three. ‘Take your pick. Any or all of the above.’
‘I checked James out,’ Owen insisted. ‘Full work-up. There was nothing—’
‘Nothing we can see,’ Jack corrected.
‘All right, all right,’ Owen replied, conceding.
‘What do we do about it?’ Toshiko asked.
Nobody spoke for a moment.
‘Whatever we can,’ said Jack. ‘Whatever we damn well can. And let’s hope part of that whatever is helping our friend out.’
‘Do we know where he is?’ asked Owen.
‘I could try his phone,’ offered Ianto.
‘Don’t,’ Jack said. ‘Try Gwen instead.’
A cookie hadn’t helped. She was feeling worse. The wretched sense of loss gnawed at her. She felt like bursting into tears.
But over what? It was hard to reconcile anything in her recent memory with these pangs that seemed to register on a scale with grief or bereavement. In fact, the more she tried, the more she realised her recent memory seemed downright patchy. What had she done yesterday? The day before? The robot thing in the allotments, in Cathays. Yeah. That had been pretty full-on. Maybe this was what post-traumatic shock felt like.
If she was actually ill, that would help to explain the way she felt. It would explain the emotional fragility, the sense of loss, the emptiness.
There was a void inside her, a big dark hole. Its presence gave her an appetite, a searing need to fill it up. She was hungry and thirsty, she was craving, but no amount of food or drink would do.
The train was just beginning its roll into Manchester Piccadilly. She knew why she’d made the trip – to visit this bloke – but it all seemed so pointless now she was arriving. She couldn’t reason out why she’d ever thought this trip worthwhile. She had no intention of doing anything except getting off this train and on the first one back to Cardiff. Screw this Brady guy. Sorry, but screw him.
She’d put her MP3 back in, but it kept playing her random tracks she didn’t know; annoying indie pop that she didn’t like at all. It sounded like Rhys’s stuff. Had he put them on there?
It made her really want to call him. She wanted to talk to Rhys more than just about anything she could think of. It was a gut feeling, as if talking to him would provide a fix that would soothe her cravings. Something, some dull feeling of restraint, stopped her from hitting his number on her phone list.
The music went on: more stuff she didn’t like or know. She pulled out her earphones, and stuffed the MP3 into her bag. Outside, grey platforms crawled past. She could see the mighty span of the station roof. The train rocked to a halt. There was a rifle salute of opening doors.
People were getting up, gathering their things.
She breathed hard, trying not to cry. She got up. She left her rubbish, her coffee cups, her food wrappers, her paper. She had some magazines too. One was folded back on a glossy article about what Jolene Blalock had been up to since Enterprise wound up. She’d saved that for Rhys, she remembered. She rolled the magazine up and put it in her bag. She dumped the rest.
She got up, and joined the queue filing down the aisle. The women in twinsets were still chattering. The young woman who thought a lot of herself was loudly telling her clam-shell she was just getting off the train.
The small boy and his mum were just in front of her. She stepped back to let them into the queue. The mum smiled a thank you. The boy toddled along, clutching his Spongebob Squarepants toy.
Gwen got off the train and walked out of the bustling disembarkation tide to the quiet side of the platform. She stood, breathing hard, hurting. The air was cold and tangy with fumes. Whistles and voices and door-bangs and the patter of footsteps barely filled the echoing vault. A Tannoy announcement rang out into space.
Unable to stop herself, she started to cry. Tears streamed down her face. She shuddered with each sob. The sense of loss was as overwhelming as it was incomprehensible.
Her phone rang. It rang for a while before she was able to answer it.
‘Gwen?’
‘Jack?’
‘Gwen, are you OK?’
‘Yeah. I... Yeah.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Manchester Piccadilly,’ she replied.
‘OK. Why?’
‘I... It’s complicated.’
‘Gwen,’ Jack’s voice said. ‘This is important. I need to talk to you about James.’
She swallowed. She sniffed. She thought about that.
She said, ‘Who?’