by James Goss
‘What?’ asked Rhys, towelling himself down.
Gwen’s eyes were wide. She pointed at him with her brush.
‘You’re looking… well, different, that’s all, Rhys. Taller.’
Rhys shrugged. ‘A bit of attention from another woman, that’s all it takes for you to see what you’ve got, love.’
‘Ha. Ha,’ muttered Gwen. She was knackered. Jack was right. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep this week.
‘Hey, love, I reckon I’ve lost a bit after all, you know. I swear these jeans are hanging off me.’ He stood proudly in front of her, thumb pulling out the spare fabric.
‘They stretch, you know,’ muttered Gwen, without really looking. And then she really looked. ‘Where did you get that six pack?’
‘What?’ And then Rhys looked in the mirror. And a grin lit up his face. ‘Bloody hell, love! I’m staying at home today and washing the car. Topless.’
Gwen narrowed her eyes. Bless Rhys. Last time he lost weight, he’d been infected with an alien parasite. This time – well, she wasn’t inclined to believe that doughnuts and risotto were the magical keys to unlocking abdominal strength.
‘Well done, love,’ she said, keeping the worry out of her voice. Rhys seemed taller, broader – and even his face was a bit different. Slightly… well, more like he’d look in the movie of his life.
She looked at him stood there, hands on his hips, grinning at his reflection in the mirror. ‘Bloody marvellous, this! I look perfect!’
As she went to put the kettle on, she noticed his grey hairs were gone and really, really started to worry.
IANTO MISSES POCKETS
They were sat in the Torchwood SUV. A traffic warden was coming towards them across the car park. Jack was sat humming quietly to himself. Gwen realised, sadly, that the man had no real idea what ‘Pay and Display’ actually meant.
‘Ianto, hun, could you go and feed the meter? Quickly.’
‘Sure,’ said Ianto, and hefted something onto his lap the size of a labrador with handles. It appeared to be the world’s largest handbag. He dived into it muttering, ‘I’m sure I’ve got a purse in here somewhere.’
Gwen stifled a laugh. ‘Oh, no one needs a bag that large!’
Ianto looked up, puzzled. ‘But, I needed something big enough for my gun. And my house keys, and my MP3, and the phone, the PDA, the chargers, and a copy of Captain Corelli. Honestly, by the time you slip in some mints and a spare pair of tights, it’s full house, I can tell you.’
Jack arched an eyebrow.
The traffic warden tapped on the windscreen.
Jack held up his Torchwood ID. The traffic warden shook his head.
Jack looked back, placatingly, and started fishing around in his pockets. ‘Honestly, we save this city from alien disaster several times a year, and they still make us adhere to parking regulations. Do you know who really developed the internal combustion engine? Torchwood did. And this is the thanks we get. Well, that and one-way systems – the product of a tiny mind.’ Jack pouted, looking for all the world like a spoiled child. It was at moments like this, those rare moments when little things didn’t go Jack’s way, that Gwen saw the true hero. A man not frightened by vast evil, corrupt states or lost souls, but baffled by pettiness, bureaucracy and muddling mediocrity. Why he had sentenced himself to Wales, she would never really understand.
They were parked outside Rhys’s work.
That morning, Gwen had stormed into Torchwood, magnificently worried.
‘My husband’s too pretty!’ she’d yelled. ‘You’ve got to do something, Jack!’ She caught the look in his eye. ‘Don’t you go sassing me, Harkness. I am deadly serious.’
‘Sass?’ tutted Jack in mock affront. ‘I don’t do sass, do I? I prefer to think of it as kittenish charm. What do you think, Ianto?’
‘Definitely kittenish,’ said Ianto.
‘Sod the kittens,’ Gwen was in full flow. ‘Rhys woke up bloody gorgeous this morning, and I want to find the woman who’s done that to him.’
As she spoke, she was flinging photos from her phone up onto the Hub’s screens, until pictures of Rhys bobbed across the wall. Some were of their wedding, two were before and after shots of the back of his head, and one was of him this morning, wearing only a towel and waving sheepishly at the camera.
‘Look at Rhys!’ Gwen shrieked. ‘Overnight he’s gained an extra two inches!’
Jack carefully didn’t say anything. Ianto examined the intricate walnut inlay of the table surface.
Gwen pressed on. ‘It’s not natural. It’s wrong, that’s what it is. He goes on a date with a supermodel. He wakes up the next day all Abercrumpet. Shortly after Ianto wakes up bloody gorgeous. Buzzz! I rather do think there just may be a link.’
She suddenly knew she had Jack’s full attention. Finally.
‘Emma Webster. This woman is speed-dating, Jack. She is combing through Cardiff’s singletons – those she likes get a free makeover, those she doesn’t end up dead. Whatever she’s using, whatever her power, it’s not been around more than a week. She’s got her hands on some alien thing and… and… she’s using it to make her ideal man.’
‘Rhys?’ said Ianto and Jack.
They looked again at the picture of the jovial, weakly smiling bloke drifting across the walls of their boardroom.
GWEN IS THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER
‘Oh, hi, Gwen,’ said Large Mandy from the office, laughing her normal large laugh. ‘Are you here for Rhys? He’s just on the phone. Would you like a doughnut?’
Gwen glanced at the plate full of pastries. Mandy was obviously Rhys’s enabler, keeping him fuelled on whatever crap she could lay her hands on. Ah well. She wondered how Mandy had taken Rhys’s sudden transformation. And then she found out.
‘I must say, Gwen, love, he’s looking knockout today. The girls from upstairs have been popping down to have a peek. He’s quite something – I’ll say this, married life suits him. Not like my Ted. Oh, I tell you, you wouldn’t believe the size of him these days. I always tells people I work in haulage and they looks at Ted and they laughs. It’s our little joke, see.’ Mandy laughed. ‘I’m glad we lives in a bungalow these days, or lord alone knows how I’d get him up and down the stairs.’
‘Right,’ said Gwen. This was about all she could ever think to say to Mandy.
Rhys popped his head round the door. ‘Gwen? I thought it was you.’
He looked really happy to see her. Actually, he looked bloody stunning. It was ages since she’d seen him look this happy.
‘Come in, come in – I’ve got things to tell you. It’s about… Her!’
She wandered into his office, watching as he excitedly shut the cheap, thin door. She imagined Mandy on thundering tiptoe sneaking closer to eavesdrop on the other side. She clearly wasn’t alone in this – Rhys had dropped his voice to a spy movie whisper.
‘She! Phoned! Emma!’
‘When?’
‘Just now! Asking me out on a proper date!’ Rhys was actually rubbing his hands together.
‘Congratulations. You going to tell her you’re married?’
‘No! I’m going to go on the date.’
‘Rhys are you out of your tiny skull? For all we know that woman is a crazed killer. Look what she’s done to you already…’
Rhys looked down at himself and flashed her the same proud, silly smile he normally saved for when he let one off in the car. ‘Oh, I dunno. I don’t think it can be her. She’s so nice, love, but this is just careful eating.’
Gwen glanced bitterly at the half-eaten doughnut on a plate by the phone. ‘Bollocks. That woman is dangerous, she is manipulative, and she is after you. You are not going on that date.’
‘She’s hardly the black widow, is she?’
‘Rhys, wherever she goes, corpses turn up. She’s sliced through the dating scene in Cardiff. And now she’s sunk her claws into you. She is dangerous.’
‘And she’s expecting me to pick her up tonight at eig
ht. And I’m going.’
‘What?’
Rhys’s stubborn streak was showing. ‘You want to find out more about her? You will. You can put a wire on me, you can all follow me. Dinner with her? She’ll open up to the Williams charm, tell me everything about her, and you can all listen in. If she is the Black Widow of the Bay, then you can arrest her. If she’s just a lonely gorgeous soul, then I’ll do my best to let her down gently.’
Let her down gently? ‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll cope.’
‘You are so jealous!’ Rhys appeared delighted at this. ‘It’s fine. Admit it, Gwen – I’m your best lead. And isn’t it just nicer to have a friendly chat over a bottle of wine than hosing her down in your cells? I won’t let anything happen to me. And at the slightest sound of danger, you and Jack can come crashing in like cowboys and save me.’
‘Too bloody right we will.’
‘Do I get a code word?’
‘Cocktail sausage. Work it into conversation however you will.’
‘Can’t it be saveloy?’
Gwen hugged him. ‘I love you, but I think this is really, really silly. I don’t want you coming to any harm.’
Rhys shook his head. ‘You always were a terrible judge of women. Emma’s a nice girl. And this is a first date. Nothing ever happens on a first date.’
Gwen stared at him, open-jawed. ‘If she doesn’t kill you, I will.’
EMMA WEBSTER IS DETERMINED
‘I will not end up a gin-addled spinster in a cat-soaked attic.’
She scanned down Facebook and noticed that her ex, Paul, had changed his relationship status. She felt cold and unhappy. She’d always thought that, you know, maybe at some point they’d get back together. But here he was ‘in a relationship with Helen Corrigan’. There was even a picture of the two of them out together. She looked bright and young and happy and a bit on the drunk side. He looked as good as he’d ever looked. And underneath it, he’d posted: ‘Hey babe! I can’t believe it – the one time I look better than you in a photo, and I’m SLAUGHTERED!!!’
Helen had commented: ‘LOL!’
Emma took against her purely on that basis.
Hey, Emo girl, why so sad?
I’m just – you know, grieving for what’s lost.
Grieving? The past is where you dump things you no longer need. The future’s all fresh and tidy. Listen to me – we’re going to do better than Paul. You’re seeing Rhys tonight, aren’t you? That’s something to look forward to.
Emma watched as Vile Kate pottered across the office and perched on the edge of her desk, leaning over to talk to Susan. Her mouth was starting to swell up due to some ‘mystery allergy’. Despite her nastily swollen lips, she had a happy little smile on her face.
And… oh yes, a little belly. She’s ballooned already! I wonder if she’s noticed that everyone thinks she’s pregnant. They’re even getting up a card for her.
Kate finished talking to Susan about something to do with the laser printer and turned to Emma, wearing her ‘sad face’, even sadder due to her dramatically bloated lips that made her look like a goldfish dealing with terrible news. ‘Ooh. Sorry to see your ex has found someone else. Are you OK?’ She squeezed her shoulder, and Emma cursed that she’d been unable to think of a reason for declining Kate’s friendship request – which gave her instant access to a treasure trove of embarrassing facts and moments.
Emma nodded. ‘I’ve moved on.’
Kate slid her head onto one side, like she was listening for an approaching train. ‘Oh. I’m so pleased. I always think it’s tragic when we can’t move on. There’s no point in torturing yourself over your failures, pet.’ And she smiled again and walked away.
Cancer?
OWEN HARPER IS STILL DEAD
Jack sat on his own in the Boardroom, just listening to the sounds of Torchwood. It was never quiet, even here, several storeys below Cardiff Bay. There was always the rumble of traffic, and the thud of the waves, the not-quite-right ticking from their unique computer system, the occasional roar of a Weevil, and the angry hum of the Rift Manipulator, the only thing keeping Cardiff from being torn out of existence. Oh, plus, sometimes, he swore he could hear the chiming of a grandfather clock, but he’d never found it, or asked Ianto where it was.
This was his time, and he loved it. In his long lives, he’d only ever felt truly at home in Torchwood – the only place and time that suited him. All the noises comforted him – in an odd way, this creepy, dark place was his only friend. It let him think.
He heard a distant footfall. Ianto, he thought. He didn’t say anything until he came into the room.
‘Oh, hi,’ said Ianto, awkwardly. He was wearing his favourite suit back from when he’d been a man. And carrying a tray of coffee. He tried out a brave smile. ‘Normal service has been resumed.’ He set down the tray with a bang and waited. His smile faded as his look at Jack became desperate.
‘Oh, Ianto,’ Jack got up and walked over to his friend, gripping him by the shoulders. ‘You look ridiculous in those clothes.’
Ianto shrugged. ‘What every girl wants to hear. I just felt like a change. Hoping it would jog my memory.’ He poured milk into Jack’s cup, stirred it and handed it to him. Jack took it, brushing his hand against Ianto’s. Ianto held it, but snatched his away when Gwen came in in a waft of pastry flakes. She put down her sausage roll on the Boardroom desk, scattering more crumbs, and grabbed a coffee from the tray. Only then did she notice Ianto. She paused. ‘Hum. OK. It’s quite Marlene. I’ll give you that.’
‘Really?’ said Jack. ‘I think she’d be quite upset.’
‘Hey!’ protested Ianto, tugging unhappily at the suddenly overlong sleeves of his jacket.
Jack pressed on.
‘Now, sit down. Ianto, drink some of your excellent coffee, and listen. I’ve got some news. News about what made you the man you are today.’
He pushed a key, and documents managed to drift onto the Boardroom computer screen. As he waved his hands in the air, various ones floated forward to fill the wall.
‘This was an active file of Owen’s. He was monitoring various news reports about revolutionary gene therapy. Apparently this was a therapy that wasn’t available on the NHS – the makers said they’d been told by various hospitals that it was too costly. But they were claiming some success with all the usual suspects – the big C, the big A, the even bigger A, and even baldness and wrinkles. So far – so normal. There are a dozen of these stories every week in the papers. Breakthrough press releases that are never heard from again, or turn out to be flawed studies. But you know how it is – everyone wants to be perfect, to be cured. And we know that a couple of these stories have turned out to be worth Torchwood’s time. And so, they’re flagged.
‘This one – there was something that grabbed Owen’s attention. It was partly the deliberately low-key nature of the reports. As though the people behind it wanted the public to know about it, but didn’t want anyone to take it seriously. Then it turns out that…’ He paused. A long document floated past in very small print. ‘… This is the report from the NHS trust that was supposed to have looked into this treatment. It’s a fake – no one has even considered using this. It’s not even been through basic testing – that’s all faked too. This treatment is a fake. Which isn’t necessarily a problem – only there are all of these testimonies to its success. And they read wrong – they’re not showing up like the fluke cures you get from placebo trials. Nor do they read like faked testimonials. No “Mrs N of Stoke-on-Trent” – these are the real things. Names, addresses, photos. All over the last two months, appearing in papers across the country, but all claiming to have received treatment in Wales. Owen thought that this was a fake cure that accidentally worked. So, we flagged it. And then, on the night you disappeared, Gwen and I were out hunting Weevils, and here you were. Alone. Cleaning the coffee filter. Same old Saturday night. And then the file noticed this, and sent you an alert.’
A small newspaper article floated to
fill the screen:
HEALTHCARE ALL AT SEA FOR MIRACLE CURE
DOCTORS ARE DEMANDING to know if a miracle cure is legal, following the discovery that secret gene treatments are being offered on a Dublin to Cardiff ferry service.’
‘Oh my god!’ said Gwen. ‘The ferry!’
The headline swum slowly across the wall.
Gwen shook her head. ‘But… No one mentioned anything strange. They just seemed shocked. They literally didn’t know what hit them. Everything seemed OK.’
Jack looked at her. ‘Read on…’
Nicknamed the ‘Hope Boat’, this is an ordinary ferry service that has been offered for the last four months. Patients can join normal passengers heading to the Emerald Isle and, once the ferry is in International Waters, the apparently ‘illegal, untested’ treatment can be carried out.
‘It’s brilliant,’ said Barry Truman, 48, of Minehead. ‘We did someshopping in Cardiff, some sightseeing in Dublin, and on the way back my cancer was cured. My GP had given up on me, but apparently I’m in complete remission.’
Furious NHS officials are demanding access to the Hope Boat, but the ferry company has explained that the procedure is nothing to do with them. ‘We know it goes on,’ explained a spokesman for the company, ‘but we don’t know who carries out the treatment, or even who the patients are. All we know is that there’s a lot of miracle cures going on onboard, and who are we to stop that?’
Cancer specialist Oliver Feltrow disagrees: ‘Terminal illness care has always been prey to so-called miracle hoaxes like this. Proper palliative care can be derailed by these claims of a total cure, leading to a tragically inevitable relapse. The really sick people are those behind this scam.’
Passengers on the ferry last weekend rallied to support the Hope Boat. ‘I had no idea,’ said Mr Ross Kielty, 35, of Neath. ‘Fancy learning that the wife and I have been on a shopping trip while everyone around us has been cured of god knows what. No wonder they’re drinking the bar dry!’