Torchwood_Long Time Dead

by Sarah Pinborough

  He shuffled into the kitchen. Pills, and then back to bed for a couple of hours. Maybe he’d remember more then. His hand paused as he reached for the handle. Brown masking tape ran in three strips across the two doors keeping them shut. Confused, he looked around him. All the cupboard doors had been taped shut. And the drawers. His headache momentarily forgotten, he walked slowly around his flat, his heart thumping steadily more loudly with each step. It wasn’t just the kitchen. All the cupboards and doors were taped shut.

  What the hell had he been doing all night? What the hell was going on?

  Chapter Six

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ The doctor was sweating slightly. ‘You want me to cut you open and sew this into the back of your skin?’ He held up the sealed object.

  ‘Yes,’ Suzie smiled at him. ‘I thought I’d made that perfectly clear. It’s not difficult to understand.’

  ‘Do you know how dangerous that could be?’

  It was late at night and Suzie didn’t have time for games. So much time was wasted spelling out the obvious, and she had to be back at the Hub by 9 a.m. She wanted this in and tested by then.

  ‘I think I probably know that better than you.’ She lay down on the table in his surgery. ‘People have metal placed in their bodies all the time. Pacemakers. Steel pins. Just think of this as something like that.’

  ‘But what does it do?’ Under the white light, his balding head was sweating. He really was an unpleasant little man.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure.’ She was running out of patience, especially given that in a couple of hours all his questions would be irrelevant anyway. ‘But that’s my concern, not yours.’ Her dark eyes sparkled with good-humour. ‘What you need to weigh up is this. You either do what I ask, or I’ll be reporting you for that stash of unpleasant and definitely illegal pornography you have. You AND your little group of like-minded friends. Do what I say, and you can carry on with your sick pleasures. Seems like a no-brainer to me.’

  She smiled as he started to prep the room. ‘Oh,’ she added. ‘Local anaesthetic only, please. And don’t get any ridiculous ideas about killing me on the table. That happens, your secrets definitely come out.’

  She killed him as soon as she could comfortably move. He wasn’t expecting it, but she saw the abject disbelief in his eyes as they widened in the moment just before she pulled the knife out of her boot and stabbed him with it.

  ‘Sorry, Doc,’ she whispered. ‘Needs must.’

  He crumpled to the floor in an unpleasantly pudgy heap, blood pooling underneath him. She checked he had no pulse and then, ignoring the pain in her stomach that was creeping past the painkillers, she pulled the Resurrection gauntlet out of her holdall. She smiled. If this thing inside her could pump out energy, then maybe it could extend the effects of the glove when she and it were connected. There was only one way to find out. She pulled it on, activated it, and then lifted the man’s head.

  His eyes flew open; the usual mix of confusion and fear.

  ‘I thought I was dead… I thought I was… you stabbed me… you…’

  ‘Shhhhh.’ Suzie cut him off. ‘You ARE dead. Well, not right in this minute. And I mean literally this minute, but you are dead.’

  ‘I don’t understand… I don’t… Oh god, there was nothing. Nothing.’

  Suzie ignored his panicked mutterings and counted down the seconds on her watch. It didn’t feel any different. If the thing inside her was doing anything, she didn’t know about it.

  ‘Please help me…’ Tears filled the doctor’s eyes. ‘Please… I’ve got a family…’

  ‘Children?’ Suzie asked. She couldn’t keep the disdain from her voice. Even if the device extended the power of the gauntlet, she would kill this man again. He disgusted her. She might be a murderer, but she wasn’t a monster like he was.

  As it was, she didn’t have to. His minute and a half of extra time played out and his eyes shut. He was gone. She’d hoped for longer.

  ‘Shit.’ She took the glove off and then washed the knife. That was disappointing. She peered down at the bandaging over her slim stomach. As plans went, she hadn’t entirely thought that one through. And she was normally so bloody organised. In her haste to see if the device could somehow enhance the energy of the glove, she’d not thought beyond getting it inside her and then testing it on the doctor. She hadn’t considered how she was going to get it out again.

  She sighed, and gathered her things together. Oh well, she thought. It could stay there for now. It wasn’t as if it was doing her any harm. It would take a building falling down around her to get it to start working if Toshiko’s experiments were anything to go by. She didn’t think that would be happening any time soon.

  Chapter Seven

  The only time that Rebecca Devlin ever really longed for the old single days – or even the days before the kids came along – was first thing in the morning. She wasn’t designed for all the rushing around. She was a cup of tea in bed and wake up slowly to the news kind of girl.

  She caught sight of her reflection in the oven glass. She wasn’t much of a ‘girl’ any more, not wrapped as she was in her fluffy dressing gown over her tatty pyjamas, and with her hair yanked back in a scrunchie that was clearly too young for her 39 going on 50 tired skin. It wasn’t the sexiest of looks, but who the hell had time to be sexy with three kids and a husband? Sex was a luxury, and luxuries were for when half-terms rolled around, or she and Gary managed to sneak a few days away to themselves. The rest of the time – as it had been for the past month or so – sex was just one more thing on a very long ‘to do’ list. Long gone were the days of ripping each other’s clothes off on the stairs or the sofa, or in fact, she thought as she put the cereal boxes down, right here on this table.

  With a pan on to boil – her life would be so much easier if her mother hadn’t instilled the virtues of a proper breakfast into her – she took the eggs from the fridge and popped them in the water, before putting the carton in the bin. Or at least trying to.

  ‘Bloody hell, Gary,’ she muttered. The bin was pretty much overflowing. He’d said he’d change it before he went to bed after the game had finished. He’d promised her. She could hear herself nagging at him as she’d gone up the stairs, dog-tired at about half-nine. She knew he hated changing the bins (although maybe if just once he did it before it was overflowing and likely to spill all over the kitchen floor then it would be a less unpleasant job), but she hated changing the bed sheets, and she still did it. She didn’t ask him to do much, and he still didn’t do it. Just once she’d like to change places. She’d go off and sit behind a desk all day and he could manage the house and kids.

  A black and white cat wound itself around her legs as she carefully pulled the black sack free and tied it closed. It sat by an empty bowl decorated with fish, and then meowed.

  ‘In a minute, Sailor.’ She grabbed the bag and headed for the front door, trying to fight her rising irritation. It was a two-minute job and it really didn’t matter, but somehow it did, because it was his job and by not doing it, he made her feel like she didn’t matter. She also knew that if she said anything, it would just sound like nagging, and sometimes she didn’t like how she sounded exactly like her mother when she heard herself. Still, she thought, as she reflected on her parents and how much her mother had done around the house compared to her father, maybe her mother had had a point.

  ‘Breakfast in ten!’ she called upstairs. Not that anyone would hear with all the radios and music coming from each bedroom.

  It was still early and the street outside was relatively quiet as she added the black sack to the main bin and wheeled it to the pavement to join the others waiting for collection. Heels clicked on the pavement ahead and she looked up to see a striking-looking woman walking past. There was a cat-like elegance in her long slim limbs and clear features, and she walked with confidence.

  She’s about my age, Rebecca thought in dismay, as she caught the woman’s brown eyes and smiled awkwardly
. The same age and yet so different. Once again, her dowdiness overwhelmed her. She needed to take it in hand, she decided, looking at the other woman’s sleek black trousers and patent boots. She wasn’t old. She needed to stop acting it.

  The woman gave her a brief smile in return and then passed by. Rebecca watched her go. The early morning sunshine was bright and the woman cast a long shadow behind her. Rebecca frowned. Too long. She tilted her head slightly. It was too long and too dark, and looked as if it was stretching backwards trying to reach her. With the curiosity of a child, Rebecca stuck her foot out, letting her slipper catch the edge of it. She smiled slightly. It was just a shadow. The woman’s heels faded and eventually the strip of darkness moved from Rebecca Devlin’s front door. She watched it go.

  Back in the kitchen she checked the water was starting to bubble and then took a fresh bin bag from under the sink. She stared out of the window, caught for a moment in the glare of light. Her head ached. The bubbling and the music from upstairs faded and her heart thumped. What was wrong? What was wrong with her? She looked down at the bag in her hands and shook it out, desperately trying to shake away the sudden fear in the pit of her stomach.

  The bag opened up and all she could see was darkness. She thought of the heels tapping along the pavement. She thought of the strange shadow. Images flashed behind her eyes. She gasped.

  Red shoes. Running. Heels. Hers. She hasn’t worn shoes like that in a long time, and wishing that she hadn’t tonight. She thinks maybe she should kick them off and go barefoot, but the street is filthy and she’s scared that the seconds it takes will be enough for her to lose this race. She’s losing it anyway, she knows that. It’s right behind her. She keeps running, heels or no heels, putting her faith in the red patent Kurt Geigers that she loves to not let her break her ankle. These were her favourite shoes, her date shoes from years gone by, and as she’s running in them she’s wondering how such a good night could be turning out so badly. She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. She really, really doesn’t want to die.

  Her hair flies out behind her, and she can barely breathe. She hasn’t run like this since school and that was too many years ago now. Why did she go out with the girls? Why did she listen to Gary that it was a good idea for her to let her hair down? It wasn’t seeming like such a good bloody idea now.

  The thing growls and she can almost feel its hot breath. It had been her taxi driver. Her stupid taxi driver. She’d got in, still laughing, waved goodbye to Gillian and Kate, and given him her address. Her feet had ached then. If she got out of this alive then they were going to need a good long soak. She giggled again.

  Thank God she’d got out when he changed. When he turned round and she saw his awful burning face and he’d reached for her. Please God, she thought, as she pushed herself to get around the corner up ahead, please God let me get out of this alive. Please God, I don’t want to die, please God, and what the hell is it anyway –

  She rounds the corner and collides with someone’s chest.

  ‘Getoutofmyway! Getoutofmyway!’ she screams as panic takes over. It’s coming, it’s coming and if she doesn’t keep running…

  ‘It’s OK.’ Arms wrap round her. ‘Owen, what are you doing?’

  ‘Sorry. My eye’s not in on this thing yet.’ A sound rushes past her. Air. Movement. Then a howl of rage.

  ‘That’s better. Got him now.’

  A female laugh. ‘If your aim is that bad no wonder the toilet in the Hub is always such a mess.’

  ‘Save the jokes, Tosh. They don’t suit you.’ A pause. ‘What the hell is it anyway? Not seen one like that before.’

  Her heart thumps as the voices, and two sets of footsteps, move past. She keeps her head buried in the chest of the man whose arms have stayed wrapped around her.

  ‘Just get it contained and in the SUV.’ His chest vibrates when he speaks and she finds it comforting. She’s going to live. She’s alive. She starts to cry all over again.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling. Blue eyes, dark hair and a grin that could set Hollywood alight. ‘You’re safe now,’ he says.

  ‘Who are you?’ she mumbles, aware that her mascara has no doubt run down her face and that she’s soaked in sweat. Not a good look for a woman past 30. She wonders why how she looks suddenly matters when barely five minutes ago she was just desperate to stay alive.

  ‘I’m Captain Jack Harkness,’ the man says, and she loves the American lilt in his voice. ‘That’s Owen Harper, and the lovely lady carrying the box is Toshiko Sato.’ Rebecca watches as the man and woman nod and smile at her as they head to the rear of their large black car.

  ‘But who are you?’ she asks again, as her heartbeat slows to somewhere near normal. ‘And what was that… thing?’

  ‘Us? We’re Torchwood.’ He grins. ‘Now come and tell me exactly what happened. Then we’ll make you a nice cup of tea and get you home.’

  Torchwood. She stared into the black bag. A void of emptiness. The tea. They’d made her tea, and it made her forget everything. Been chased by muggers, that’s what she told Gary when she got home. She’d laughed it off. It had all been vague. Muggers. She was sure. She’d been chased by something anyway. Gary had been surprised at how quickly she’d got over the ordeal. So had she, but it had simply slipped from her memory over a few days. Become like a dream.

  Torchwood.

  She thought of the woman outside. The shadow in her wake. Her heart thumped. The shadow was Torchwood business. Where were they? Gone. She knew it. Who would save them all when the shadows grew longer? When that place came? She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as she caught a glimpse of what would come to pass. She thought of the American in the greatcoat. Captain Jack. You’re safe now. That’s what he had said. She wasn’t safe. Not at all.

  Behind her the pan was boiling over, steam rising in the small room. She didn’t notice. Her mind was lost in what she knew of the shadows. Her foot had touched it. Now, with her mind and memory unlocked it was as if she could truly see it. The awfulness inside. The pain that waited. The horror that lived there. It was coming. The screaming of millions.

  She took the black marker pen from the scribble board on the wall that told her on Friday she and the boys had dentist appointments, Saturday was football for Noah, and where a shopping voucher was attached by a magnet they bought in Cornwall last year. She rubbed it all out with her dressing-gown sleeve. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Her mind was a fog of darkness and she scrawled her message in big black letters.

  I REMEMBER

  It was all she could say. It was the remembering that had done it. The handsome American with his cup of tea, here you go, drink that, it’ll make you feel better, had made her forget, but now that the remembering was done, she could see what was coming. Did he know that would happen when he messed with her brain, the handsome American, and oh no her mascara has run and he’s so breathtakingly handsome and who are you anyway?

  Torchwood.

  She pulled a knife from the block. Her mind was lost in the darkness. She wouldn’t let it come for her. She couldn’t. Not the screaming. Not her screaming. Upstairs, a million miles away, the music was turned off and a door opened. She plunged the knife deep into her stomach.

  There was screaming when she died. She could hear it as she stared up at the white ceiling that needed a fresh coat of paint. But it was OK, she thought, a small smile drifting across her lips. It was only her children screaming. That was fine. It was only her children. Not her soul.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘We’re not getting much on Eryn Bunting or any of her neighbours,’ Andy Davidson said. ‘She’s lived in the same house since 2005, and her boyfriend moved in in 2006. She’s never been burgled or had any other crime perpetrated on the property. None of the neighbours have any criminal records – apart from one man, several doors down, but that was a drunk-driving conviction.’

  ‘Maybe it was just opportunistic then,’ C
utler mused, leaning back on the desk. He’d slept like a log for the two hours between five and seven and felt surprisingly awake. His mouth still had the lingering taste of cigarettes though, despite having brushed his teeth twice. It was the only solid reminder he had that anything strange had happened in the night. He put it down to alcohol. Or maybe sleep-walking of some kind, not that he’d done that before, but there was always a first time. Whatever it was, he’d put it out of his head. Apart from the cigarettes. Looking at the crime scene photos on the board, the before and after images of poor Janet Scott in particular, wasn’t helping.

  ‘Unlikely. Eryn Bunting keeps all her bank statements and payslips.’ Andy sipped his tea. ‘I didn’t actually know people like that existed. I don’t know where my payslip is for last month, let alone last year, and the last thing I want to keep in my flat is evidence of my overdraft, but Eryn Bunting is a filer. At least she was until everything went online.’ He smiled. ‘She’s a paper-saver too. But she had her bank slips for 2007. There was one missing.’

  ‘Really?’ Cutler frowned. Thus far, his money had been on the killer just having gone through a random recycling bag until he found something. ‘Is she in a flat or a house? Any way our killer might have been able to steal her post?’

  ‘Again unlikely. And anyway, if she was this anal about filing, she’d have noticed if a statement didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Anything on Janet Scott?’

  ‘Clean as a whistle.’

  ‘Great.’ Cutler chewed the end of a pen. ‘Well, until forensics get back to us, we’ve got nothing. Let’s hope we get something from the body. The killer must have left something behind. Hair or clothes fibre.’