by Dan Abnett
‘Medication, that’s what I need,’ he said, enjoying the burn.
‘You should put that back in the Armoury,’ said Toshiko, nodding at the gun.
‘I will,’ said Owen, ‘though it’s scragged anyway. Broken.’ He looked at James, who was buttoning up his shirt.
‘Sorry about, you know, pointing it at you,’ Owen said.
‘No sweat. You weren’t yourself.’
Owen frowned. ‘Still, bugger only knows how you disarmed me. Very kung fu.’
‘It must’ve felt like it to you,’ said James, ‘but I was just flailing around. I think the thrall of the Amok made us all a bit slow. I only realised I’d knocked it out of your hand when I saw it on the ground.’
Dressing her hands, Gwen leaned on the rail and looked down at them. ‘My head still hurts like a bastard,’ she said.
‘Mine too,’ said James. Toshiko nodded.
‘All in all, that wasn’t nice, was it?’ Gwen asked.
‘Scale of one to ten?’ asked James.
‘Twenty-seven,’ they all answered.
‘What’s up with Jack?’ asked Owen, taking another swig from his bottle.
‘Who knows?’ replied Gwen. ‘And right now, who cares?’
‘Coffee?’ asked Ianto.
Jack had walked upstairs to the Boardroom, and was sitting in darkness, looking down into the Hub.
‘That’d be good,’ he replied quietly.
‘Rough night?’
‘End of the World.’
‘Analogously?’
‘No, just almost.’
Ianto set the coffee down on the table beside Jack.
‘They’ve been through the wars,’ said Ianto.
‘I guess. They’re gonna have to get used to it.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘More wars coming,’ said Jack.
Ianto left him alone. Jack Harkness took the small, black tile out of his lap and looked at it. It was a piece of exotic technology that had been in his possession since the day he’d joined Torchwood.
The display hadn’t changed. It had been blinking the same read-out for six weeks.
Jack Harkness didn’t know exactly what the read-out meant, but he didn’t need a doctor to know it wasn’t in any way good.
They made last orders in a bar on Mermaid Quay. James got them in, but Toshiko and Owen had to carry the drinks because James was busy with the rubberised ice-pack around his elbow.
‘Here’s to the End of the World,’ said Owen.
‘Let’s hope tomorrow’s quiet,’ said James.
‘Let’s hope tomorrow’s POETS,’ said Gwen.
They all looked at her.
‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘“P. O. E. T. S.”? “Piss Off Early Tomorrow’s Saturday”? The weekend approaches, people.’
‘Speaking of which...’ said James significantly.
‘It hasn’t?’ asked Owen.
‘It most surely has,’ said James.
‘Arrived?’ asked Owen.
‘At long last, as promised,’ said James.
‘The whole deleted series?’ asked Toshiko.
‘Oh yes,’ said James, wiping beer froth off his upper lip. ‘Came in the post this morning from my pal Archie in Burma. Three DVDs. The whole thing, unavailable in the West.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Owen.
‘So, I’m thinking,’ said James, ‘Saturday afternoon, three o’clock-ish, my place. I’ll supply the in-flight nibbles. Owen, booze?’
‘My middle name.’
‘Tosh, some proper food, maybe, for half-time? Those Dragon Rolls and the tempura you made last Christmas, pretty please?’
Toshiko smiled and nodded.
‘I can bring some nuts,’ Gwen volunteered.
‘They’ll already be there,’ grinned James.
‘Do we ask Jack?’ Gwen asked.
Owen frowned. Tosh shrugged.
‘He pretends he doesn’t like Andy, but he really does,’ said Gwen.
‘Of course he does!’ James exclaimed. ‘Everyone likes Andy.’
‘Let’s see what he’s like tomorrow,’ said Toshiko. ‘Then decide if he gets an invite.’
Owen and Gwen nodded.
‘But if he comes around makin’ trouble,’ said James in a beaky voice, ‘I ain’t gonna get in no flap.’
‘I ain’t gonna get in no flap!’ echoed Owen, laughing.
‘No, it’s more nasal,’ said Toshiko. ‘Up in the nose. Listen to how James does it.’
‘Hello?’ said Owen. ‘Punched in the face?’
‘Oh!’ said Gwen suddenly
‘Oh what?’ asked James.
‘I just remembered. I promised I’d go to the pictures with Rhys this Saturday. Pirates of the Caribbean 3.’
‘Can’t you get out of it?’ asked Toshiko. ‘I mean, we’re talking unseen Andy.’
Gwen pulled a face. ‘Christ knows, I’ve blown him out twice this last week. I think we’ll have issues if I muck him around again.’
‘But it’s Andy,’ Toshiko protested.
‘I know, I know...’
‘You should just chuck him and have done,’ said Owen.
‘What?’
‘Rhys,’ Owen said, sipping his drink. ‘You should just chuck the bugger and have done. He cramps your style.’
‘Owen!’ Toshiko scolded.
‘I can’t just chuck him!’ Gwen said, outraged. ‘I—’
‘You what?’ asked James quietly.
Gwen looked at James, and made a small smile. ‘I live with him,’ she said.
‘Well, just make it if you can,’ James said. ‘It’s going to be a blast. Thirteen episodes. Thirteen whole episodes.’
‘I know,’ said Gwen. ‘I know.’
She got back in just after one, creeping like a mouse into the flat in Riverside. The flat was dark, but she could hear the telly still playing from the lounge-diner.
Gwen realised she was very hungry. Her head was still throbbing. She went into the lounge-diner. The TV was playing News 24, but there was no sign of Rhys. Some magazines lay on the couch. A pizza box.
It was empty.
She scurried into the kitchen area, and opened the fridge. Cheese appealed, and grapes. She found some bread in the bread bin.
Her bandaged hands were making heavy weather of slicing the cheese when a voice said, ‘You’re home, then?’
Rhys stood in the landing doorway, his hair tousled, his eyes heavy with sleep.
‘Yes,’ she said, as brightly as she could muster.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making a snack. I didn’t get anything earlier. Want something?’
Rhys shook his head, but then helped himself to a slice of the cheese she’d cut. She sliced some more.
‘How was your day?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘OK. I taped How Clean Is Your House? for you. Aggie finds a rat in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘You’re late,’ Rhys said.
‘Work,’ she replied. She took a bite of her sandwich. Cheese fell out. ‘What are we doing then, on Saturday?’
‘I thought it was the pictures,’ Rhys said, scratching his head. ‘You get a better offer?’
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘There’s a work thingy, but I can just not go.’
‘Be nice to spend some time.’
‘It would.’
‘Important work thingy?’
‘Oh, no. Just some... some stuff that’s come in from Burma.’
‘Top secret, eh?’
‘Deleted.’
‘Ah,’ Rhys said. ‘What’s up with your hands, babe?’
‘I hurt them. It’s nothing.’
‘How d’you hurt them?’
‘Work.’
Rhys was silent for a moment. ‘You know, there comes a point...’ he began.
‘What sort of point?’ Gwen asked.
‘The sort of point when “work” ceases to mean anything, or be an answer for anything.
It’s the ultimate excuse, the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card. It’s like faynights.’
‘What?’
‘Faynights. You never say that in the playground? You’re it! Faynights. You’re tagged! Faynights. To cover all excuse. Diplomatic immunity.’
‘Have you had a drink, babe?’ she asked him. She’d lost her appetite. The sandwich went down on the counter.
‘You say “work” the same way. You do.’
‘Rhys, I’ve had a bugger of a day and I don’t fancy a row right now.’
‘A row? How could we have a row? Everything I say, you’d just answer “work”. Where have you been? “Work”. Why haven’t I seen you this week? “Work”. Why are you out so late? “Work”. Why haven’t we had a shag in a month? “Work”.’
‘Oh, give over! It’s not like that!’
‘It bloody is! It bloody is, Gwen!’
Gwen’s head was kicking off again. She threw the butter knife into the sink and pushed past Rhys.
‘Gwen?’
‘Shut up!’
‘Where are you going?’
She looked back at him. ‘You know, this evening, someone I have very little regard for suggested I should chuck you.’
‘Why don’t you then?’ Rhys roared back.
She glared at him. ‘I have no bloody idea,’ she replied. She turned and headed for the front door.
‘Where the hell are you going now?’ he yelled after her.
‘Work!’ she replied, and slammed the front door after her.
It was only after fifteen minutes of wandering the streets looking for a taxi that Gwen began to cry.
High above the city of Cardiff, Jack Harkness stood in the cold breeze and looked out at the stars. Sirens whooped in the amber streets below him.
Up high, he had time to think. To clear his mind. Being up high always put him in an expansive mood. He looked down at the city, the lit thoroughfares like interlocking bars of light in the black continuum below. He heard the throb of the late traffic, the wail of emergency vehicles plying the streets, their chopping lights moving like cursors along the bars.
His mind was easing a little. Tough night. Rough night. One of the worst, and it still wasn’t over. Today, or the next day, or the next, the night was going to last forever. Even so, he began to relax a little. He felt safe and powerful up there, confident that he was the only being in Cardiff who could ascend so high and regard so much without being seen.
In both particulars, Jack Harkness was entirely wrong.
Mr Dine waited, crouching down below a parapet. He could feel the pull. He resisted. He had to check first. Be sure. It might just have been a false alarm.
He stood up and stepped into space.
Twenty metres below, he landed effortlessly, and began to run across the slanted roofs.
Owen Harper poured himself another measure of Scotch, and toyed with the glass. By his own standards, he was falling down drunk. Luckily, he was in his own apartment overlooking the Bay.
He gazed out at the lights.
‘I used your soap, is that all right?’ the girl said, coming out of the en suite.
Owen looked around. ‘Yeah, sure.’
What the hell was her name again? Lindy? Linda? The only thing he was sure of was that she had the most tremendous rack in the history of tremendous racks.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
He stared at her. She wasn’t wearing anything, and that helped to remind him why he’d brought her home with him in the first place. He took a sip of Scotch.
‘Looking at you,’ he said.
The bath was neck-deep and warm, and suffused with fragrant oils. Toshiko Sato turned the lights down until only the candles made a glow, and slipped off her bath robe.
She sank into the bath. The warm water enveloped and embraced her, soothing her bruises and her tired, weary body.
She lay back, and reached for her glass of wine.
James Mayer paused the television remote and cocked his head. Someone was definitely tapping on his door.
He got up, gingerly, feeling the pain in his body, and padded barefoot to the door.
‘Hello,’ said Gwen.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Is me being here a problem?’ she asked him.
‘Hell, no, I was just surprised. I didn’t expect—’ He looked at her. ‘You know today is Friday, just, don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you know the Andy Pinkus Marathon doesn’t start until Saturday?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Gwen?’
‘Are you telling me I can’t stay here until Saturday?’ she asked.
‘No,’ James replied. ‘Have I ever?’
Her mouth met his. He pulled her into the flat.
Later, during a brief intermission, she got up, naked, closed the door, and turned the deadbolts.
SIX
Monday morning, with a sky like a dirty fleece above Cardiff.
As the kettle boiled, Davey Morgan fed the cat, and then made up his flask.
‘So, anyway, I left it in the shed,’ he said, bringing his story up to date. ‘It didn’t seem to want to be disturbed, so I thought, it’s doing no harm here, I thought, and left it there.’
He took his digging jacket down off the door-peg in the little back kitchen. It was the top half of an old suit. He reckoned he’d been married in it, in ’48, but Glynis had always insisted he’d been wearing it when they’d first met, at the social in Porthcawl, which would have been ’46. Glynis had always had a keen memory for such details, either that, or she had always been better at asserting her version of the truth. He missed her.
The jacket had been pretty done in by the mid 1950s, but she’d refused to let him throw it out, for ‘sentimental reasons’. So it had become his digging jacket, her name for it, reserved for the allotment in cold weather. Pretty good run it had had since then, for a demob suit with feeble stitching.
‘I suppose I’d better check on it,’ he said. The cat was as indifferent to this remark as it had been to the rest of his story. Bowl cleared, it sat down like a Degas ballerina, toes en point, and began to lick its arse.
‘You be all right here for an hour or two?’ Davey asked. The cat looked up briefly, the tip of its tongue slightly protruding, then went back to its ablutions. He wasn’t talking to the cat anyway. He was talking to the picture on the hall table. But he always pretended he was talking to the cat, because if you talked to pictures, you had to be bonkers, didn’t you?
He put on his cap and patted the pockets of his digging jacket. Glynis had died in 1978. Complications, the doctor had said, which had seemed a reasonable diagnosis. As complications went, dying was a considerable one.
Every Friday night, she’d slipped a packet of mints into the pocket of the digging jacket for him to find every Saturday morning out on the allotment. He still checked, even though there hadn’t been a packet of mints to discover in twenty-nine years. There was a wrapper, though. A twenty-nine-year-old scrap of foil and paper. He’d never had the heart to throw it away.
He went out into the yard, and locked his backdoor. Leaning against the wall, he put on his wellies, then walked off down the backyard to the lane behind the houses that joined with the allotment path.
A pneumatic drill stammered like a frantic blacksmith. They were building new homes on Connault Way. The land buy-out had included a large swathe of the allotment space that had once surrounded the streets of Cathays. Madness. Jim French, who grew winter veg on the plot three over from Davey’s, had told him on the nod that the council were considering selling off their patches to the developers too. How could that be right, in any man’s world? What would he do for lettuce and spuds and marrows then?
He could smell brick dust and rain on the air. The new houses looked like box skeletons over the hedge. Prefab rubbish, like Airfix kits, thrown up in a month, the speed of weeds. Not like the front-and-backs on his street. Decent brick, wood
en doors. Course, his could use a lick of paint, but still.
There was no one on the allotments, not on a Monday morning. The iron gate squealed as he let himself through. More than half the plots had gone back to the wild. Nobody wanted the toil of an allotment any more, not when there were Kwik-Saves full of guavas and broccoli and pre-washed beans.
That was why he’d been digging in the plot next to his. He hadn’t paid the annual fee for it, but it had been abandoned more than ten years ago, and he hadn’t seen the harm of it. And that’s when he’d found it. Just that last Saturday, forking the cleared earth while the stripped weeds crackled lazily in his brazier. He’d just had the clearest taste of a mint in his mouth, just for a second, the memory of a mint, when the tines of his fork struck it.
The boys had been there again, Sunday night. Empty beer cans on the path, a cloche kicked over. Davey still had the tub of black paint ready, in case they ever took it upon themselves to decorate his shed again, the way they had in the spring. Foulmouth buggers couldn’t even spell. Taff Morgan iz a old purv.
Davey went up to the shed and undid the padlock. It was still there, where he had left it, propped up in his wheelbarrow, angled slightly as if it was looking out of the grimy window.
‘All right, then?’ he asked.
It made no more response than his cat had done.
‘I was wondering if you had a name,’ Davey said. ‘Just to put us on civil terms. I’m Davey, but they all call me Taff. The wife even called me Taff.’
A little hum: no more response than that.
‘Daft name, I agree. What do you call it now? A stereotype, is that it? Had it since ’42. Royal Fusiliers, boys from all over, no older than me. Boys from Liverpool and Birmingham and Luton. Jock, see, he came from Aberdeen, so naturally, he was Jock. And I was Taff. Taff Morgan. The Welsh lad. Oh, it was a simple thing. You didn’t argue. You were glad to be noticed.’
Another hum. A slight change in pitch.
Davey took out his flask. ‘How about a cup of tea?’ he asked.
Monday morning, rain-clouds like bruises over the Bay.
Gwen let herself into the Hub via the little information centre on the Quay. She could smell Ianto’s coffee even before the cog-door rolled open.
‘All right?’ Owen asked her. His face had bruised up well since she’d last seen him on Saturday. He had even more of a pouty expression than usual.