Another Life t-1

by Peter Anghelides

  He towelled his hair with his hand, tousling it, and studied Toshiko for a reaction.

  ‘I fancy a pizza,’ he told her. ‘How about you? We’ve got some money-off coupons somewhere, haven’t we?’

  SIX

  It was a miserable alley on a miserable night. They’d started off walking through the initial spots of rain in the optimistic brightness of Mermaid Quay, laughing even as the weather started to deteriorate. By the time they’d reached this grimy backstreet further over in Butetown, a steady drizzle had killed their high spirits stone dead.

  Stone dead conveniently described the occupant of Wildman’s car. Gwen knew before she reached it that the scene wasn’t going to be pretty. She could deduce that from the dazed expression on the face of the police constable, a young woman who stood, trembling, twenty metres from the vehicle. Gwen touched her on the shoulder, a gesture of reassurance or solidarity, and then trailed in Jack’s wake as he cut through the police cordon to where Wildman’s car had been abandoned.

  Jack waived the polite introductions, but didn’t immediately wave away the scene of crime officer in his usual manner. Gwen knew this was because there had been no information radioed in yet, otherwise Toshiko would have overheard it and passed it on to them. She gestured wordlessly to the other police officers at the scene to stay back.

  ‘Passer-by thought the woman had fallen asleep in the driver’s seat,’ the SOCO started. No preamble. Efficient, to-the-point. English accent, with a downward intonation that suggested Birmingham. A Brummie that Gwen didn’t recognise, so he must be fairly new. Only a few months out of the force, and already she was losing track of the team on her patch. Well, on her old patch.

  ‘Then the witness noticed the mess down the window, and called it in,’ the Brummie explained. ‘We forced the rear door to obtain access, in the unlikely event that the victim was still alive and needed urgent medical attention. Didn’t want to move the body, obviously. Photographers aren’t here yet.’

  Jack scanned the area quickly, left to right. The car was a four-door Vectra estate, parked midway under the only streetlamp in the alley that wasn’t working. Jack played his torch through the windows into the car’s interior. A middle-aged woman was sitting upright in the front seat, though her head had drooped against the driver’s window. Her eyes were closed, and where her dyed blonde hair fell over her shoulder it was matted with blood.

  ‘OK, thanks. You can clear the area now,’ Jack told him.

  The Brummie didn’t seem to understand this. Perhaps he thought Jack was talking to someone else. ‘Nasty wound. Gunshot from the seat behind, perhaps? The spray pattern across the roof of the car might suggest that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ repeated Jack.

  The Brummie seemed to relax a little, now that he’d delivered his brief report. His attitude had changed, and he was chatting comfortably, despite the falling drizzle. ‘This reminds me of that woman in Tesco car park on a hot sunny day, who dialled 999 on her mobile,’ he laughed. ‘Heard a gunshot, felt a blow above the base of her neck. Sat for thirty minutes with her hand cupped behind her head to stop her brains from spilling out. Until we arrived and told her that the heat had exploded a canister in the back seat, and she was only holding a lump of ready-mix dough.’

  Gwen watched Jack’s brow furrow. She stepped smartly between the two men. ‘We’ll take it from here,’ she told the Brummie before he dug himself into deeper trouble. ‘You can secure the perimeter, and keep the photographers back when they arrive.’

  The Brummie opened his mouth to object, saw her raised eyebrows, and slunk away.

  Despite the way he had spoken to the SOCO, Jack actually showed a great deal of respect for scene-of-crime protocols. He slipped on a glove, then eased open the Vectra’s rear door. He reached in to pop up the front lock, and opened the driver’s side. By swiftly positioning his hand in the gap, he was able to prop up the corpse and gently push it back into the car to prevent it from falling out into the road.

  The dead body was still strapped into the seat. With the door now open, the upper torso lolled over onto the steering wheel, head dropped, right cheek downwards so that the face pointed back towards the passenger seat.

  Jack’s torch played over the back of the corpse. She had been a thin woman in late middle age, wearing a knitted green cardigan over a patterned dress that was now stained heavily with dried blood and gory fragments. The head was only half-attached to the shoulders. Blonde hair had been torn out in lumps or wrenched away from the nape of the neck.

  Not that there was much of the nape still visible. The flesh was ripped almost down to the clavicle. Further up into what had been the hairline was a ghastly hole, filled with clotted blood and with clumps of greyish matter visible in the mess. The curdled mess reminded Gwen once more, horribly, of strawberry yoghurt. It was too unbearably apt an image. She shivered because she knew that something had killed this woman by gnawing into the back of her skull.

  The woman’s handbag was on the back seat. Her purse contained a name and address, plus an ID card from Blaidd Drwg. ‘Jennifer Fallon,’ Gwen read aloud. ‘Now we know why Tosh couldn’t reach Wildman’s secretary. She was with him in the car. Drove him here from the facility.’

  No need to crouch over looking at the dead woman any longer, Gwen decided. She straightened, and a trickle of cold rainwater ran from her hair down her neck. All the fancy equipment at Torchwood’s disposal, she thought sourly, and they never had any umbrellas. She hunted her mobile out from her coat pocket, thumbed a fastkey and dialled the Hub. When Toshiko answered, Gwen briefed her on their discovery in the alleyway.

  ‘That fits,’ Toshiko told her. ‘Jennifer Fallon finished work early today…’ Gwen could hear the rattling sound of Toshiko’s typing. ‘Yes, the logout details confirm that they left at the same time. Her desktop machine was powered down a few minutes before she badged out of the building with Wildman. But she sent a couple of e-mails immediately before that…’ More tapping of keys. ‘OK, the last one is a quick message to her boss that Mr Wildman is still feeling ill, and that she’s insisted on driving him home.’

  Gwen considered the ravaged remains of the secretary ruefully. An act of kindness had been repaid by a fierce, merciless assault. The savage attacks on the vagrants around Blaidd Drwg were disgusting enough, but on this occasion Wildman had brutalised someone he knew from work. Maybe even someone he once cared about. She suddenly realised how tired she was, unsure whether it was all the chasing around or something else — the numbing horror of the crime scenes today. She stifled a small yawn. Gwen angled her face into the night sky, letting the rain fall onto her.

  Even with her eyes closed, she still had the image of Jennifer Fallon’s broken, brutalised body in her mind. ‘What could drive a man to that?’ she asked Jack.

  Jack grimaced. ‘She drove herself, here, to her death. With Wildman. Unwittingly, that’s probably obvious. How do we know it’s Wildman?’ He studied her, expecting an answer.

  ‘The raincoat,’ Gwen remembered. ‘He took it with him, to cover the blood and remains that would have spilled on him. She’d have put the coat on the back seat, with her bag, because it wasn’t raining or dark when they left Blaidd Drwg.’

  Jack gently pushed the Vectra’s door shut. Jennifer Fallon’s corpse rocked slightly with the car and was still again.

  ‘Oh, great.’ Jack threw his head back in disgust. ‘I’ve trodden in more dog shit.’ He bent his knee and twisted his foot out, illuminating the underside of his shoe with the torch. There was a large irregular gap in the sole.

  ‘Dog shit didn’t do that,’ said Gwen. ‘It’s like something’s eaten right through it.’

  ‘Consumed it,’ pondered Jack. ‘These are my favourite boots. Standard issue for 1940s non-jumping personnel. Ankle-bracing, leather soles, good laces, instep support. Where am I gonna find another pair?’

  ‘Army surplus?’ suggested Gwen.

  ‘Look at that.’ He balanced against the side
of the car and removed the shoe so that he could waggle it at Gwen. ‘Whatever it is, it’s eaten through the sole and then stopped.’

  ‘Leather soles,’ mused Gwen. ‘Eaten could be the right word. What’s the inner sole made of? Sponge rubber?’

  Jack nodded. Sniffed the sole of the removed boot experimentally. Coughed in disgust, and propped the boot on the Vectra’s roof amid the bouncing rain. ‘Yeah, you’re right, it’s been digested. Still being digested, too. See there?’ He pointed carefully with his forefinger.

  ‘That thing you trod on. The thing Wildman coughed up outside the building site?’

  Jack cracked a huge smile. ‘Smart girl.’

  ‘Still here,’ said Toshiko’s voice from Gwen’s mobile.

  ‘OK, I think we’re done,’ Gwen told her.

  ‘Thanks, Tosh.’ Jack raised his voice so that the mobile would pick up his words. ‘End of your shift for the day.’

  Gwen let Toshiko say goodnight before ending the call. She pocketed the mobile.

  ‘I’m starting to worry where else I may have trodden this stuff,’ Jack grumbled. He scrunched up his face in dismay, because he’d just absentmindedly put his unshod foot down on to the rainy pavement. ‘All right. Not looking so cool, now. Time to call it a night.’

  ‘What about this lot?’ Gwen jerked her head at the corpse. There was so much left to do here, and yet she knew she was exhausted. She felt the sides of her face tighten, but subdued the tired reaction.

  Jack peered into the Vectra. ‘I’ll take her back to the Hub. You get our police friends over there to disperse, and then you can go home.’

  Gwen couldn’t stifle the yawn any longer.

  ‘There you go,’ Jack smiled. ‘An honest opinion, openly expressed. I’m boring you. Go home. It’s past nine.’

  She checked her watch and was dismayed to find he was right. Where had the day gone?

  He was still looking into the car, probably wondering how he was going to move the body. Or maybe move the whole car. The obvious problem was that the unfortunate Jennifer Fallon was still in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Go home,’ Jack urged Gwen once more. He angled his head to look up at her. ‘Rhys is waiting. You promised me that you’d keep hold of your life, remember? You may even have promised him. Don’t let it drift.’

  ‘What about you?’

  Jack straightened up, and pushed his shoulders back to release the tension. ‘Think I’m going swimming. I’m wet enough already. And it’s time to reconnect with life after all this death today.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ Gwen smiled.

  She walked back over to the police cordon, to let them know they were no longer required. The police photographer repacked his camera case with bad grace. The Brummie was trying to object, but Gwen cut short his protests, more snappishly than she would normally.

  In the distance, Jack was opening the nearside door of the Vectra and reaching into the passenger seat. Gwen could see the thick woollen sock on his shoeless foot, sodden from his journey through the puddles. He’d still be working long after the rest of the team had finished, as usual.

  She dialled home. Told Rhys she was sorry to be late. Again.

  Should she be ashamed, or relieved, or grateful that he reacted so calmly? Again. Was he being calm, she wondered, or did he really not care? Or maybe he was watching Matrix Reloaded on the DVD. Again.

  Rhys told her that he’d saved her some tea, and he promised not to eat it if she got a shift on. ‘Get a shift on’ was what he told the drivers at his office when they were running late. She told him thank you. And yes, he could eat the final strawberry yoghurt if it was reaching its use-by date — she didn’t fancy it tonight.

  She listened again for clues in his voice, to anticipate how he might be when she got back to the flat. Tired? Irritated? She let his words wash over her for a while, until she abruptly realised that he’d fallen silent. Asked her a question and was waiting for an answer. She’d let her mind wander, hadn’t been listening properly to him.

  She told him sorry, she was a bit tired, and they could have a proper talk when she got home. But as she hung up, she knew that she’d said that to herself every night for the past two months. That’s what their evenings had become. Chit-chat, usually from him about office intrigue, or Banana Boat’s road warrior stories, or Sonja the Secretary’s latest emotional crisis. Telly often. Eating off a tray, some quick meal that Rhys usually cooked. Maybe some perfunctory lovemaking if they weren’t too tired before bedtime.

  She was going to walk home now. She gave Jack one last look, then turned towards the main road. The drizzling rain that had clung to her all evening was now a steady stream, splashing in the growing puddles all around her.

  Was this her life now? Was this what you expected, she asked herself. Can you continue to keep this from Rhys, from whom you never had secrets before? Or is this something new? Another life that you never expected, never knew existed. Do you have any idea how you got here?

  SEVEN

  You have no idea how you come to be lounging in the back room of a hairdressing salon called the Lunatic Fringe. But that’s where you find yourself this Saturday night, watching the sunny day fade into memory as a sinuous teenager called Penny Pasteur pours your piña colada into a frosted martini glass.

  Through the shop window a pair of neon curling tongs rotates and flashes. In the street there’s a bustle of pedestrians heading home. Even from the back room, you can hear their scabbards clank against their leg armour as they stagger off to the stables to saddle up their steeds and gallop away. Penny kisses you, her tongue flicking briefly over your lips and teeth, before she withdraws to the kitchenette to rinse out the empty cocktail shaker. To get there, she has to step over the corpse of an awkward customer, the Norse demigod called Kvasir whose neck you earlier snapped like a brittle branch after that altercation. He should never have insulted your dwarf assistants. And spitting in your eye was the final straw.

  You are not the kind of guy who stares at danger with fear in your eyes. The strongest and brightest of your lineage, at six feet ten and fifteen stone you tower over your family physically and intellectually. Your stocky frame belies your litheness, and your twelve years of battle knowledge as a Brandywine dragoon places you in the marksman’s upper quartile for accuracy, speed, and dexterity. Your strongest asset remains your hand-to-hand combat experience, and there are few who can match you in an unarmed close-quarters brawl. Especially tall Scandinavians with long hair who can’t tell the difference between a fiver and a tenner.

  The sky outside darkens, presaging a storm. Beware the coming night, for agents of Chaos ride and you may be consumed by their powers.

  You consider your clothes. The black leather jerkin covers a thin vest of meshed steel over a pure cotton chemise. The ends of your dark cotton trousers are stuffed into your sturdy black boots. A dragon motif emblazons your left breast.

  You have stamina, you have drive. Your overriding ambition is an assault on the Wrestling League, to top it within three months, and to turn professional before year-end.

  Beyond the shop window, off into the distance, the shimmering buildings of the Millennium Capitol beckon you. Though first you will need to make your way through the shadowed alleyways that surround Apzugard Bay. Beware the aerial beasts that swoop through the bruising purple sky, the predatory creatures from within the Bay, and the crazed, half-forgotten denizens of the Capitol slums who stand between you and your dream.

  The door is ajar. Go forward now! Your destiny awaits!

  You are Glendower Broadsword!

  Continue? Y/N

  ‘Glendower Broadsword?’ laughed Toshiko. ‘Put your weapon back in its scabbard, Owen. No one’s impressed.’

  Engrossed in the display on his terminal, Owen hadn’t realised she was standing behind him. He clicked an icon at the top of the screen, and the text window minimised to reveal an image of the Lunatic Fringe. A row of barbershop chairs angled off into the distance,
distinct shapes in primary colours. Through an inner door, a cartoon image of Penny Pasteur stood paused in a kitchen area, her back to a sink full of washing-up. Penny’s character wore a fluffy pink bikini that barely covered what even Owen would admit were implausibly large breasts. She’d be rubbish at doing the dishes, he decided. How could she see the crockery as she washed it?

  Toshiko interrupted these idle thoughts when she took the mouse off him and maximised the text window. ‘No point hiding it, Owen. I read most of it already’ She scrolled down the words. ‘What’s this, you miserable sexist? A serving wench attending to your every need. In a hairdressing salon?’ She made a half-hearted attempt to stifle her amusement and retreated back to her own work station.

  Toshiko sat at her desk, surrounded by an accumulation of computer spares, alien artefacts, and stacked coffee cups. She eventually lifted her pretty almond eyes to look back at him through the piles of stuff. When she spotted Owen scowling at her, she fell into a new bout of giggling, and covered her mouth modestly with a raised hand.

  Owen tried not to rise to this. ‘I thought you’d been working on improvements to this game?’

  ‘Keep your hair on, “Glendower”.’ She tapped a few more keystrokes at her terminal. ‘I’ve got your enhancements here, as promised.’ Toshiko came back over to Owen. She brought a DVD case and what looked like a motorcycle helmet with an opaque visor at the front. ‘Before we get started, you should log off your Internet connection.’

  ‘Because…?’

  ‘Because you’re only going to do this within the confines of Torchwood’s firewall. At the moment, that low-resolution graphics version runs from the Second Reality company’s server machines in Palo Alto. Many thousands of people around the world, all simultaneously connected to a shared system. That’s why they call it a “Massively Multiplayer Online Game”.’