by James Goss
Around him were girls wearing less and laughing more.
A gust of icy breeze lifted his skirt, and he heard some men across the street make a ‘Woooooo!’ noise. He glanced across at them, and they barked back.
Ianto cursed under his breath and carried on walking. ‘Lovely night for a spot of MurderRape.’ He got stopped briefly by an enormous queue outside a club. He stood there for a bit, trying not to jostle, sensing the ogling glances of the men, and the strange, jealous glares of the women.
A meaty hand landed on his arm. ‘Aw, not going home already, luv, are we?’ A boy’s voice, rough and slurred, sweet with beer, too close to his ear.
Ianto nodded. ‘I’ve got a boyfriend, sorry,’ he said quickly, and carried on walking.
All around him was noise and screaming, and empty glass bottles and rain, and the greasy smell of kebabs and piss. By the time he found the chip shop he was looking for, he was fed up and dripping, and he pushed gratefully inside, past a sign advertising curry with half and half. The shop stank of salt and vinegar and comfort. He shivered and made his way through the quiet crowd to the counter.
The shop was busy, as ever, the windows fogged up – couples sharing chips and sauce on the tiny lean-to formica counters, tight huddles of lads arguing over their orders, quiet groups of drunk girls, nudging and waiting and texting and stabbing at their chips with dainty mini-forks. And just one tiny little old lady behind the counter doing everything. Bren was a Cardiff institution, and a personal hero of Ianto’s – she was more organised and placid than he was. He just saved the world on a regular basis – but she kept order in St Mary Street on a party night. To the best of his knowledge, no one had ever had it large in Brenda’s.
She barely peered at him through her enormous fishbowl spectacles, waiting patiently for his order.
‘Aw, hello, Bren,’ said Ianto, cheered to see a familiar face, ‘How are you?’
She fixed him with a sudden razor gaze. ‘I don’t know you, dear,’ she said, quite certain of it.
‘No, sorry,’ said Ianto, slightly crestfallen. ‘I’m actually looking for Patrick.’
Bren held his gaze ever so firmly. ‘He’s out the back, luv, doing the batter.’ She leant back and raised her voice delicately. ‘Lady for you, Pat.’ And then Ianto was swept aside in favour of Vimto and a saveloy.
Patrick emerged, puzzled and then blinking happily. For a dead man he was in great health. He was tall and broad, with a grinning rugby-build that showed no signs of going to seed. He was wearing an old T-shirt, a little chef’s hat and an apron covered in flour. ‘It’s you – funny name girl. Er, Ianto, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Still checking up on me? Come through.’
He lifted the heavy formica counter, and Ianto stepped through into another world, past Tupperware, a smell of hot oil and jars of pickled eggs, and a slowly spinning kebab.
‘Sorry if I don’t shake your hand, but I’m breading fish,’ Patrick explained, moving to a table and working quickly. ‘What brings you here? Girls’ night out?’
Ianto looked baffled and then remembered. ‘Oh, no. No. Well, a bit, but just a quiet drink with friends. Tombola’s,’ he put in quietly as an extra detail. No reaction. ‘Although we nearly went to Abalone’s.’
Patrick smirked at that and carried on quietly, expertly mixing up a batch of batter. ‘Abalone’s, eh? What would you think if I took you on a date there?’ His smile was sly.
Oh. Oh god, he fancies me. Ianto thought of something smart to say or do, and instead gave a little snorty giggle. With horror, he noticed a tiny fleck of snot land in the batter, but realised that Patrick was looking away. ‘Er… well… er…’
Patrick met his gaze and smiled. ‘Look, I’ll be truthful. You’re a pretty girl. And I was supposed to be going speed-dating there. They do a deal when you sign up – you book a table in advance for the Saturday night at a discount. So if I met someone nice, I could take them there.’
‘I see,’ said Ianto, not seeing at all. ‘And?’
‘Well,’ said Patrick. ‘I just wondered – is it a naff place to take a date?’
‘Oh,’ said Ianto, distracted into considering it seriously. ‘Well, it depends. Now me, I love a salad bar. Especially one with a sneeze guard.’
‘So that’s a yes?’ asked Patrick, washing his hands in the sink. He was smiling with a natural confidence that Ianto had never really had.
‘What?’
‘God, why do the pretty ones always make a meal out of it? Look, gorgeous, I’m saying screw the speed-dating. Why don’t I just take you to Abalone’s, sneeze guard and all?’
Oh dear. He’s asking me out on a date. Right. What? But… What do I do about this? If I go, perhaps I’ll save his life. Or break the space-time continuum. Or end up pregnant. That’s a whole new risk. What would Jack do? Ianto thought hard. And realised that Jack would barely have glanced at Patrick’s wicked grin and blue eyes before having him up against the gherkins.
I need a better role model, thought Ianto glumly.
‘OK,’ said Ianto, slowly. ‘Firstly, why are you asking me out, please?’
Patrick wiped his big hands down on his apron. ‘Oh come on, Ianto. When you walked in here it wasn’t to watch me batter a sausage.’ He laid a hand on Ianto’s shoulder and drew close. ‘Or was it…?’
‘Well,’ began Ianto, ‘actually, it was to save your life.’
Patrick took it as a joke and leaned in closer. He was wearing quite a nice scent, Ianto decided. ‘Really? You’re my saviour, are you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ianto, suddenly noticing how warm a fish and chip shop was. ‘Uh, yes. Seriously. I didn’t knock on your door by accident today. I was looking out for you.’
‘My guardian angel?’
‘Sort of,’ said Ianto. ‘I’m slightly psychic, see, and I saw you out the other night, and I had a premonition.’ He rolled the last word like a preacher.
Patrick laughed heartily, and clapped his giant hands on Ianto’s shoulders, drawing him into a big, easy hug. ‘Oh you are precious and funny.’
He pecked the side of Ianto’s cheek and then drew back. ‘So, gorgeous, you want to be around me and watch over me? Is that it?’ He grinned a big grin and then kissed Ianto again, this time on the lips. Ianto discovered two entirely new things about being a woman.
Patrick leaned back, and smiled at Ianto. ‘OK then. If I survive till the end of the week, we’ll go to Abalone’s. How about that, angel?’
Ianto was quite distracted for a second, but eventually replied. ‘Yes. Right then. So long as I’m just saving your life. If that’s all right?’
Patrick laughed. ‘It’s quite all right. You know, you aren’t like the other WAGs we get in here. You’re very shy. It’s rather sweet.’
He was about to kiss Ianto again, but they were interrupted by Bren bustling loudly down the corridor. ‘Pat, luv, there are customers who need to tuck into a good mutton pie. I can’t have you out here all night handling the fish.’ Bren gave Ianto the briefest of glances.
‘Yes, Nan,’ said Patrick, cowed just a bit, but also smirking. ‘Come on,’ he said to Ianto, leading him back to the counter and holding it up like a wedding arch. ‘See you Saturday, unless you feel the sudden need to save my life first.’
His hand brushed against Ianto’s skirt and then he went over to heat up some pies, giving Ianto an enormous wink.
Ianto watched Patrick’s back as he worked and realised that, for the first time, he was actually enjoying being a woman. Suddenly hungry, he turned to Bren. ‘Can I have some chips after all?’
Without looking up Bren got to work. ‘Small chips, is it?’ she said. ‘1.20 thanks, love.’
As Ianto walked out, he was oblivious to the two flour handprints over the back of his skirt.
Back out in the rain, he took three steps, trying to eat the chips and shield them from the weather. Steam rose from them, wafting around in the downpour. They didn’t taste of much, other than hot, but somehow they comforte
d him. A crowd of blokes edged past, their eyes all over him. Someone grabbed his arse, and he flinched and forced himself to move on. If only you bloody knew, he thought.
Later, he’d ask Gwen how she coped with an evening of constant ogling. She’d grin and say, ‘Well, most of the time, I was all padded up in my lovely copper’s outfit. That tends to soften the curves a bit. You still get a bit of chat, mind, but it’s all “awright luv?” banter. Honestly, if I’m lucky, someone’ll tell me that they’ll come quietly. You know. Clever. But not so bad.’
Yeah, Ianto would say, but what about when she was out… properly? And Gwen would shrug and grin. ‘I gave as good as I got.’ And Ianto didn’t doubt it for a second.
But for the moment there was just the chips and the rain. Ianto pressed on, past the bright lights of the last shop open selling cigarettes in Cardiff. One foot in front of the other.
These bloody, bloody shoes. I am never doing this again. And definitely never sober.
The chips were cold and damp. The rain was in everything.
I am completely soaked and sodden. I will never be warm and dry. I absolutely hate being a woman.
Ianto saw something in the street ahead, a figure standing in the shadows by the scaffolding. Something really quite-
Oh is that a cab?
Ianto rushed towards the flickering amber light sluicing down the road. He knew that around him a mini-stampede of drunk boys and desperate girls were all lurching towards the cab. But Ianto knew that he needed it more than anyone else. Screw the shoes, he was going to get it.
He got his hand on the door and was met by the baleful, seen-it-all gaze of the cabbie. ‘You going to be sick?’ asked the voice.
‘Stone-cold sober,’ promised Ianto. The door clicked open and he climbed gratefully in.
‘There’s a charge for sick, you know. And I hate having to scrub the back out. Why they can’t do it in a bag, I dunno. Bloody animals.’
And the cab puttered away, taking Ianto home through the storm. He sat there, hands scrunched round his bag of damp chips, thinking back to what he’d seen on the street just before he’d noticed the cab, with all its amber promise of home and central heating and towels. Because, as he’d been waving his hands at the cab, there’d been a man standing just ahead of him in the street. The man had been standing in the shadows of some scaffolding by the market. He’d just been standing there, looking at Ianto. It hadn’t been a look of lust, desire or even disgust. The look had been one of shock, or fear. Like he’d seen a ghost.
Ianto unwrapped the dead bag of chips and stared at them. Am I a ghost?
Standing there in the rain, watching the taxi drive off, Ross Kielty couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.
Everyone in Cardiff slept badly that night.
GWEN IS AWAKE FIRST
Gwen lay in bed, killing time before the alarm by staring at the back of Rhys’s head.
‘I know what you’re doing, you know,’ mumbled Rhys without moving. ‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’ Gwen was all innocence.
‘You are staring at the back of my head. I can tell.’
‘How?’
‘Burning sensation. Will you be happy if I get a bald spot? I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, no worries about that. Fine head of hair. Few bits of grey, though. Quite a few.’
‘No way. We Williamses don’t go grey.’
‘Awwww, Rhys. It’s fine – get used to going grey. There’s no harm in a bit of grey. It’s… distinguished.’
‘I. Am. Not. Grey.’
‘Of course you’re not, love. Now, hurry up and storm off and make us some tea.’
‘Not until you admit that I’ve not got grey hair.’
There was a click, and then Gwen leaned over him holding up her camera phone jubilantly.
‘Yes. I think it’s called salt-and-pepper. See?’
‘That’s just bad light.’
Rhys pulled the covers over his head.
‘Just go and make the tea.’
IANTO IS STAYING IN BED
Ianto Jones had a difficult second day as a woman. It started with waking up from dreams of dark, cold water and then with a shock, as though he’d fallen, spread out in his bed. And he’d forgotten, for the first few seconds, stretching out to touch the radio alarm, seeing his long, slender arm – seeing it but not noticing it.
And then he’d remembered.
Normally, Ianto Jones would wake up, swing his legs out of the bed, slope off for a pee and a shower and be out of the flat in twenty minutes. He’d have laid out his suit and shirt the night before, his lunch waiting in a Tupperware box in the fridge. It was order and a system, and he was proud of it.
But that was the old Ianto Jones. The new Ianto Jones sat in bed, wrapped in a duvet, listening to the radio babble away, staring out of the window. He didn’t even have much of a view, but he didn’t really know what else to do. He just watched the barren tops of three trees sway about in the wind like empty flagpoles.
Nearly an hour passed by. He went and stood in the shower, staring at the mirror as it steamed up and hid his new body from view. And he stood there feeling invisible and warm and hidden until he felt guilty about using that much hot water. And then he got out of the shower and dried quickly before the mirror cleared. Then he crawled back into the warmth of the duvet.
He heard the click of the door, and ignored it. He knew it was Jack standing there in his bedroom doorway, looking at him.
Neither of them spoke for a bit. Then Ianto managed, ‘I never gave you a key.’
‘And I never really needed one, but the gesture would have been nice.’
‘Ah well.’ Ianto heard Jack move across the room and felt him settle on the bed next to him.
‘Well, here am I,’ said Jack, ‘in the bedroom of a beautiful, naked Torchwood operative. Anything could happen.’
‘You realise the only word I heard was “beautiful”?’
‘I realise. I’m checking that you’re OK.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I dunno.’ Jack nodded. ‘You never even considered getting somewhere in Grangetown with a view?’
‘There are no views in Grangetown.’
‘Good point.’ Jack leaned in and wrapped a big arm around the duvet and Ianto, drawing them both in. Ianto let himself be folded up, marvelling at how much wet hair he had.
‘I miss you, you know,’ said Jack. Ianto laughed. ‘I miss me.’
‘But you’re still in there.’
‘Am I? It feels less and less like me. This body just gets more and more perfect. I can almost sense it – it hates me. I don’t belong inside it. I’m the wrong soul in the driving seat.’ He looked across at Jack.
‘If the real owner is somewhere out there in your body, she’s not shown up. Nothing.’
‘It’s at times like this,’ sighed Ianto, ‘we need Tosh.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Jack.
‘Apart from the whole science bit, she had some great jackets.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Jack. He stood up and reached out his hand. Ianto took it. ‘Come on, Miss Jones. Let’s put on some clothes and face the day.’
EMMA WEBSTER IS PLOTTING REVENGE
It was on Tuesday that Vile Kate finally noticed the change in Emma. It had taken her a day longer than everyone else.
Kate had been in one of Her Meetings. These went on for a long time, were supposedly very difficult, and she pretended she found them A Terrible Chore, while at the same time dropping simpering hints about how Vital she was to the organisation, and how close she was to all the powerful people. When Kate walked in, she was talking to Arwel, the new researcher. ‘Honestly, she put down her Blackberry and gave me a big hug and told me how nice this perfume was. Do you like it? It’s very similar to something Posh wears.’
And then Kate looked at Emma. And noticed her. New, slim, gorgeous, perfect Emma. And her mouth formed a lovely little ‘oh’ and a frown. And for a glorious insta
nt she looked like a sex doll. Emma grinned. Kate snapped on a warm smile. ‘Oh, Emma lovely, look at you! It’s so nice to see you making an effort in the office!’ She turned around to her colleagues with a fond look that said ‘See, everyone, what she can do when she tries!’ and settled down to work.
To Emma’s horror, everyone nodded at that.
I can give her cancer.
What?
I can give her cancer. Incurable, slow, painful cancer that burns away more steadily than your hate.
Emma’s head flooded with a sudden, delicious view of Vile Kate, sat at her desk, weeping and clutching clumps of hair that had fallen out.
No.
Really? Too much? Not even for a couple of weeks? How about a bit of a scare? Go on, the tiniest non-malignant lump. But, you know, worrying enough that they’ll chop off her boobs. Go on…
Emma shut her eyes and felt dizzy. She breathed in deeply and then out. And felt the red mist gently float away.
No. I hate her. But I don’t really know her. I don’t want to… maybe later. Is there anything small you can do?
Well, she’s had work done. Those boobs aren’t real, and her lips have had a bit of plumping. I can soon sort that out.
Really? Oh that’s brilliant.
And… I can make her fat.
Emma giggled, remembering all the little comments about struggling to bring up bebbies and maintain her figure.
Do it.
Nice one! I think you’ll love the results. And then some day you can dance on her grave while her fat children watch.
Emma smiled warmly and truly. A few minutes later some of the girls asked if she wanted to join them for lunch for the first time in ages. ‘You look really… confident,’ said one. And Emma beamed.
‘So how are you?’ asked Sharon. ‘We’re all dead impressed with your makeover. How are you feeling?’
Emma watched Kate walking over to the salad bar, laughing with one of the Divisional Sales Managers while ostentatiously picking out a few green leaves. ‘Perfect,’ she said.