by James Goss
Who You Thought You Were.
(Last revised 1958)
There are five classic stages to body dislocation and misplacement.
STAGE I: Disbelief, fear and horror
Relax, this is the worst bit. Especially if your consciousness has been transplanted into a non-terrestrial organism, potentially with a superfluity of limbs. The good news is, if you’re reading this, you’re over the worst of it – if your mind couldn’t cope with the alien signal inputs, then it’d all be over by now. Instead, don’t worry.
You’re going to be fine.
From the Torchwood Archives
GWEN IS WEARING CORPSE
The skeleton sat looking out over Cardiff Bay, its hand resting on a glass of champagne which was still fizzing slightly.
‘Oh yes, definitely one for us,’ Jack was assuring the restaurant’s owner. Gwen was dividing her attention between the corpse and Ianto.
She was just about used to Ianto being a woman. Well, more or less. The weird thing was it was exactly, completely Ianto. Self-deprecating, quietly ironic, bashful. Only in the body of a woman who looked like she’d stepped from the set of Hotel Babylon.
Ianto was standing, staring at the body, completely entranced. His head was on one side, his mouth slack with unbecoming surprise. ‘Um,’ Ianto said, using lips that had clearly never said anything uncertain before in their lives. ‘This is quite a new thing.’ He bent over the table to examine something.
Gwen caught the manager checking out Ianto’s magnificent arse. Ah well, she thought. And she’d got used to being the pretty one. Poor Ianto – she wondered if he realised the effect he was having on men. Knowing him, probably not. But Gwen was going to have to have a little word about posture. He still moved like a Valleys Boy in a new suit, stiff, slightly afraid, and ever so slightly ungainly. Plus he kept sticking his arse in the air like a duck bobbing for food. It was like presenting a target to the entire restaurant staff. Still, Gwen guessed it distracted everyone, just slightly, from the enormous lump of skeleton sat at the table.
She wondered how Jack was feeling about Ianto. Was he being all sympathetic and reasonable, or just leaping on the poor lamb? She glanced briefly at Jack. He was watching Ianto and grinning. This was just one long sexy party for Jack, she decided.
Gwen went over to the counter where they kept the CCTV and started spooling through it. She’d called Rhys on the way to the restaurant, and tried explaining it all to him, but she’d got no further than ‘Ianto’s now a woman. Ianto. The quiet man who makes the coffee. No. Not in that sense. He’s not a trans-anything. He just came into work this morning as a woman. Yes. No! Of course I haven’t checked! No, Rhys, it’s a completely different body. I absolutely assure you he’s not tucked it up. Well, I guess so. Look-No, look, the point is that he’s gorgeous and I-Shut up. Listen-Well, yes I know about your Canadian cousin. It’s not like that at all.’
The CCTV bore out the manager’s story in time-lapse. Crowded lunchtime in a Cardiff restaurant. Lots of business. Only a few empty tables. People came and went. 3pm: the restaurant started tidying up after lunch. 3.17pm: between one frame and the next, the skeleton appeared. 3.18pm: one of the waiters noticed, and the screaming begins.
Gwen pocketed the disc and went over to the table.
Jack was looking at the skeleton, and standing closer to Ianto than he’d ever stood before. He smiled at Gwen briefly, and then looked back at the corpse. ‘It’s a young skeleton,’ he said.
‘How can you tell?’ asked Ianto. Gwen suddenly realised that he really, really missed having pockets. His hands were patting the top of his skirt nervously. It wasn’t an attractive look.
‘Calcium deposits?’ put in Gwen.
Jack shook his head and pointed to the body. ‘It’s the clothes – they’re very new, they’re trendy without being expensive. We can bother with the scanners in a bit, but I’m going to bet this was a young man.’
‘Out on a date,’ Gwen put in. ‘The table’s set for two, and he’s wearing his finest pulling gear. White shirt for clubbing, stripy shirt for a date. Those are the rules.’
‘Oh those rules,’ sighed Jack. ‘What did the CCTV tell us?’
‘Middle of the afternoon. Blink and he’s there. But the look of the table suggests he’s been there hours.’
Ianto checked a clipboard, happily. ‘Table’s got a good view.’
Jack nodded. ‘See if he’s got a wallet or a phone would you, Gwen?’
Gwen bent over and started rifling through the pockets,
Ianto had spotted something. ‘There’s lipstick on this coffee cup!’ observed Ianto.
‘Excellent work, Ms Jones,’ said Jack.
Gwen sighed, and tried to feel inside the jacket without touching the ribcage or retching. She managed to undo one of the buttons and was just edging her hand in when the body moved slightly and – oh god – she touched it, then jerked back as the body moved. It fell forward and just hit the table and carried on going, and she yelled and shut her eyes.
When she opened them again, she was covered in dust. There was no sign of the skeleton, just a pile of clothes. She gagged.
‘I just touched it and…’
Ianto shook his gorgeous head disapprovingly, and bent over the body. ‘Well, here’s the mobile,’ he said.
Gwen started to brush herself down. ‘Honestly, I just…’
Jack tutted. ‘Complete cellular exhaustion. The only thing holding those molecules together was boredom. Just a tiny nudge and…’
Ianto smiled. ‘Aw, Gwen, it’s made such a mess of your nice trousers.’
Gwen laughed. ‘Look at Ianto Jones, criticising my clothes! Fancy that – your first bitchy comment. Welcome to the sisterhood.’
Jack looked up from sweeping some dust into an envelope.
‘You two aren’t going to gang up on me, are you?’
Gwen’s mobile rang. Inevitably Rhys. No matter how many times she said ‘Please don’t call me at work unless another starliner lands in The Hayes, or there’s a new Heat with Gavin or Charl looking fat.’
‘Hello, lover!’ he said. ‘What’s up? Apart from Ianto’s cup size.’
Gwen stepped out onto the balcony. It was cold and windy, and she watched the wind blow vital crime-scene evidence off her and into the Bay. Ah well. ‘Nothing much. I’m covered in bits of corpse.’
‘Eugh!’ there was a pause. ‘I was eating a doughnut,’ said Rhys reproachfully.
‘I knew you were cheating,’ Gwen smiled. Rhys was on another semi-diet, which gave Gwen hours of innocent pleasure.
‘No… not really. Pastries left over after a meeting. Stolen food doesn’t count.’
‘Really?’
‘You’ve always said so. Anyway, corpse?’
‘Yeah.’ Gwen did a little relationship maths – how much could she tell him against how much would it make her feel better. ‘Yeah. Skeleton turned up at a table-for-two.’
‘You are kidding! Classy!’ Rhys sounded worryingly enthusiastic. ‘Where?’
‘You’ll never believe it – Abalone’s,’ said Gwen. Rhys laughed. ‘Wouldn’t be seen dead in there!’
‘Well quite,’ said Gwen. ‘Poor bugger seemed to be on a date.’
‘Abalone’s. What a way to go. It’s only one up from keeling over at the Chinese Buffet. What’ll you tell the relatives? Died of shame?’
‘Ah,’ said Gwen. ‘We’re still working out who he is. You see, I touched him and he… well, exploded over me…’
There was a dangerous pause, in which Rhys had the chance to say something reassuring. Instead: ‘So you’re seriously wearing skellington?’ Rhys was really amused. More amused than when Gwen had trodden in dog turd. Wearing flip-flops. ‘Well, mind you have a shower before tonight – we’re going round to Darren and Sian’s. They’ve got a new pet.’
‘What did they choose?’ Knowing them it was going to be something fluffy and low maintenance. Their ideal pet would be a spider plant that could p
urr.
Another laugh from Rhys. ‘A rat.’
Gwen squeaked. ‘Oh this is the best day ever.’
PATRICK MATTHEWS IS NOT DEAD
Gwen scurried back into Torchwood. She’d nipped out for a sandwich and got soaked. She’d needed a break from combing through interviews with ferry passengers and CCTV from the bar. She’d been hoping to come back refreshed. Instead her teeth were chattering.
And there was Ianto. Sat at a desk, looking annoyingly perfect, not a hair out of place.
‘You bloody cow,’ laughed Gwen, dumping her bag on the desk. ‘How do you do it? You look… You’re not even wearing make-up.’
Ianto shrugged. ‘It’s getting weird, isn’t it? It’s like this body can only be pretty.’ He pointed to the hair. ‘And the hair! It just naturally… bounces into place. I’ve not even moisturised. This’ll take some getting used to.’
‘Hey, ladies!’ Jack bounded into the office, laying a fond hand on Ianto’s shoulder. I bet they’re at it like rabbits, thought Gwen. Jack picked up a leaflet on caravanning in the Gower and then favoured them with a wide grin. ‘Ianto Jones – looking amazing. Gwen Cooper – looking damp. Keep it up troops!’ They followed him through into Owen’s old medical area, where what remains they’d salvaged lay in an untidy heap on a slab.
‘I have news about our corpse,’ said Ianto. ‘His wallet says he’s Patrick Matthews. He checks up as living in Adamstown. He’s 25. And he’s still alive.’
‘Really?’ Jack looked pleased.
Ianto nodded. ‘I went over to his flat. He answered the door. Oddly, I didn’t have to think of a cover story. He seemed perfectly happy to chat.’ With those knockers, I bet he bloody did, thought Gwen. ‘Nice bloke, really,’ Ianto went on. ‘Works in Chippie Alley, moved from Neath. Got a nice car. Very friendly. Even gave me his mobile number – but told me it wasn’t working. He was off to get a new one, which was why I’d caught him in. Not at all dead in any way.’
‘Ah.’ Jack held up the corpse’s phone. ‘I have a theory. Two copies of the same mobile can’t function on the same network. You’d need a degree in temporal engineering and a soldering iron to get around it. Dusty the Corpse is from the future.’
Ianto coughed, gently. ‘And there’s more. I rang the restaurant. Patrick Matthews has booked a table for Saturday.’
Jack wore an expression which on any other man would have been embarrassed. ‘Tricky. Tricky.’ He spread his hands out in a really big shrug. ‘We used to hate stuff like this at the Time Agency. We’d have seminars. Really boring seminars. And don’t even get me started on the flowcharts.’
‘Jack!’ Gwen didn’t quite shout. ‘What do we do? Can we stop this?’
Jack’s look turned shifty. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps he does die. Perhaps not. That’s the problem. He dies in the future, his corpse turns up here. But if we prevent him from dying – what happens? It’s a massive ticking paradox inches away from a colossal space-time rift.’
‘Are you saying we do nothing?’
‘Not… nothing. I’m just saying that we might not be able to do anything. There’s two ways of looking at it. And one of them argues that we can spend the rest of the week trying to save Patrick Matthews – and somehow, he’ll still die. Do we really want to spend the next week in one of those films about doomed teenagers who die with hilarious consequences? Kind of hoped we were classier than that.’
Gwen thought about it. Rhys liked Final Destination way more than she did. That was a fact. Her left shoe was more wet than her right one. That was also a fact. You couldn’t even go out for a meal in Cardiff these days without causing a space-time paradox. Third fact. Hmm. She glanced at her watch. Not even 7pm. This was turning into another long day.
‘Right.’ Ianto’s voice was soft and echoed across the Hub. ‘We’ve got a week to work out who’s going to kill him. Failing that, we just turn up on the night.’
Jack started to open his mouth to argue, but Ianto carried on speaking. ‘It’s the least we can do. Maybe it’s fated that he’ll die. But maybe we can find the killer. What does it say about that on your flowcharts?’
Jack spread out his hands helplessly, and for a second looked like a farmboy with a missing cow. ‘To be honest, we never got to the end of the flowcharts. They were really big, the print was very small, and most of us were bombed by that point. See what you can find out about him, I guess.’
Later Jack sauntered over to Gwen’s desk. They’d spent the last few minutes pretty much not making eye contact. ‘So,’ he said, ‘are we going to have a row about this?’
‘I dunno, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a million things on, I’m soaking wet, and I just want to get home, shower and put some warm, dry clothes on.’ She managed a weak smile. ‘But doing nothing feels… wrong. I want to try.’
‘Really?’ Jack was looking directly at her, nearly smiling. ‘Potential paradoxes are really, really bad. You behave nicely around them, and the universe doesn’t end. Trust me – I’ve spent chunks of the last century not bumping into myself. You get a knack for how to behave around paradoxes. Approach them like male models – very carefully and only from behind. If we can save him, then we will. But I can’t have you following your heart on this one. It’ll go horribly, horribly wrong. I need to rely on you to do the right thing.’ His smile suddenly flickered on. He sipped his coffee. ‘Is it me, or has Ianto’s coffee got better since he’s a woman?’
And, with that little misdirection, he was gone, bounding back to his desk.
That was bloody useless, thought Gwen, miserably. A few reassuring words, a bit of sexy banter, a lot of que sera sera. She looked back at the photo of Patrick Matthews floating across her screen. According to his Facebook status, he was booking a holiday. Bloody hell, thought Gwen.
EMMA WEBSTER IS ATTENDING SPEED-DATING IN THE BAY
Hi, I’m Ross. I’m with the No.
Too old.
Hi, I’m Terry. I’m
God, those teeth.
Hi, I’m Roger. By name and
Tosser.
Evening, gorgeous. I’m
There is not enough vodka in the world.
Actually. I’m fed up of all of them. Can you make them go away?
An hour later the phone call came in.
‘A bar full of skeletons?’ said Jack.
TOMBOLA’S IS THE IDEAL VENUE FOR YOUR NEXT PARTY
Tombola’s was one of those places. It was hard to see why anyone would go there for a drink unless it was for a reason. It wasn’t a bar you’d drop in on. The brewery were baffled. Clearly, the architect had put a lot of work in, and the décor was very nice – quite modern, quite classy, quite solid wood and cosy bunk beds. The beers were nice, the food wasn’t bad, the music wasn’t offensive. It was all very safe and ordinary – and the folk of Cardiff avoided it like the plague. Which meant it was easy to book it for a function – so it was popular with book groups, societies, and so on.
It had needlessly roped off an area for speed-dating. The area was full of corpses. All dressed up. All ready to go. All dead.
‘Well, they’re all men. I think we’re looking for a woman.’ Jack smiled. ‘Forget Mister Right – we’re looking for Miss Wrong.’ He stuck his hands on his hips and grinned broadly.
Jack Harkness, thought Gwen, I love you, but sometimes, you can be very hard work.
An hour later and they’d managed to collect twelve wallets and mobiles and only destroyed two bodies. Miraculously, Ianto had managed to avoid getting any of the dust on him. Whereas Gwen was caked in dead people. She was mentally rehearsing comebacks for any witty comments that Rhys might manage when she finally staggered in. But that wasn’t going to be for a long time.
Ianto confirmed there wasn’t any CCTV footage. ‘But, interesting development – the place was booked for speed-dating. And, as far as anyone can tell, this was it. The bar staff agree that everything was going on very much as normal, and then… all of a sudden… this.’
&n
bsp; ‘Yeah, but that’s stupid,’ said Gwen, a little harsher than she’d intended. ‘There are twelve men here. Where are the women? You don’t just get one woman – it’s normally a group. Fuelled on zambuca and desperation.’
Ianto reached into a large pink rucksack and pulled out a scanner which he ran over each of the bodies. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No abnormal emissions, no radiation traces. Slightly elevated static electricity.’
‘Really?’ said Jack.
‘Yes. Twenty-three per cent. Same as over the rest of town.’
‘Oh.’
‘Right. This is peculiar.’ Ianto was scanning the room. He shrugged, which pushed back the straps on his shoulders. ‘No… something’s odd here. Each skeleton… it’s… perfect. Full set of teeth. No bones broken. Great posture. No fillings.’
Gwen laughed. ‘Twelve Welsh men without a single filling?’ The skeletons sat at various tables across the room, all in postures of polite attention.
‘So,’ said Jack slowly. ‘Apart from the mysteriously vanishing women, someone is taking men, making them physically perfect, then killing them?’
‘Don’t forget about sending the odd one back through time,’ put in Ianto.
‘Marvellous.’
BREN IS VERY PRECISE
It had been a long, long night, thought Ianto, but he had one thing more to do.
He was walking down St Mary Street. It was raining, but Cardiff was in full party mood. Tight hunting packs of single men, pumped arms and white shirts, strode past. Little groups of women stood queuing sulkily outside clubs. Everywhere were bouncers, flyer girls, and police just, you know, waiting.
And it was freezing. Last time he was out on the lash he’d been wearing a duffle coat. Now all he had to keep the elements at bay was a mini-skirt, a pair of tights and a light denim jacket. The rain was slicing through him. He was dying with each step.