But it wasn’t Gillian.
‘Hi,’ called Wynnie, with a little wave. ‘We’re looking for someone.’
The man was tall, dressed in a ragged black coat with thin arms and dark gloves. His head was covered in a thick cloth, wound around like bandages, leaving only slits where the eyes should be.
To Ray, the sight was terrifyingly familiar and she felt a surge of cold, sickly fear. The figure raised one arm and slowly pointed at her.
It was all she needed to snap her out of her paralysis. She grabbed Wynnie by the arm and physically dragged him away, pulling him along with her as she ran back towards the railings.
‘Run!’ she gasped.
Wynnie was saying something but she couldn’t hear what. All she knew was that they had to get away, had to get out of this awful, dead place. There were more figures, the pallbearers she had seen the night before, walking across the wasteland towards them. All of them were slowly raising their arms and pointing.
Ray held Wynnie in a grip so hard she knew it must be hurting. But she couldn’t let go; she couldn’t stop or even look back.
‘Run!’ she screamed.
SIXTEEN
Jack stood in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, leaning against the concrete wall opposite Zero’s cell. His neck was still smarting where Kerko’s fingers had dug in like grappling hooks. Somehow he had mislaid his coat, too, and it was cold down here. He had a sneaking suspicion Ianto had whisked it away for repairs. It would be dry cleaned too, in all probability. That coat had been through a lot over the years and it still looked good. Could be talking about me, Jack thought.
He stared through the plastic at Zero. What was the alien thinking? Was he even thinking at all? It was impossible to tell.
Ianto appeared quietly at his side with a cup of coffee. Jack hadn’t even smelled it coming.
‘I’ve put the Blowfish back in his cell,’ Ianto said. ‘He’ll probably come round in a few minutes.’
‘Thanks.’ Jack looked at Ianto. ‘You look beat. Get some rest.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Don’t argue,’ Jack smiled. ‘I’m in charge. Get some rest and that’s an order.’
‘Aye aye, Captain.’ Ianto turned to leave again, paused, looked back. ‘I am all right, you know.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
But he wasn’t. Ianto looked pale and tired and there was still that sheen of sweat on his forehead. At other times Jack would have been mildly excited by that, but something was worrying him now. Ianto never sweated. At least, not without permission.
‘I thought I’d go back through the Archives,’ Ianto suggested, pausing by the steps. ‘You said there had been rumours of the Undertaker’s Gift for as long as you’ve been here. If I check the records, I may find something that can help.’
‘Yeah, good idea. See what you can dig out.’
Ianto nodded and left, leaving Jack alone with his coffee and Zero.
Jack remembered bringing Zero in, shortly after they detected the Rift incursion. The alien had been strangely compliant, utterly silent, bereft of hostility but completely lethal. Jack had worn a protective rubber suit and a pair of thick, insulated gauntlets – the kind of thing he imagined power station workers wore to handle radioactive isotopes, or fire crews on warships used to avoid burns. They had protected him from the fierce electrical charge Zero carried like a plague and they were hanging up nearby right now. Jack could put the gauntlets on and walk into the cell and try to make the alien respond – push him or shake him or punch him or whatever, anything to get a reaction.
Or he could just go in without the gloves.
Take the charge.
What would happen then?
Jack had been electrocuted before. Four times, to be exact. Or was it five? It got difficult to remember, sometimes: he’d died so many times. And on at least one occasion the charge hadn’t been lethal and he’d only suffered second- and third-degree burns. That had been painful for a long time but, as ever, he had recovered. Not healed – just returned to his existent state.
But Zero packed quite a punch: 50,000 volts at a rough guess. It would kill him, again, for sure. But for how long?
And why was he thinking like this? What was so fascinating about dying? He knew he couldn’t do it, no matter how hard he tried. Or could he? Was there something out there that could finish him, draw a line underneath his existence? When would it ever end? When everyone he had ever known was dead? If the Undertaker’s Gift is real, he thought, then I might finally be about to find out. If Earth is shredded in four dimensions by a temporal fusion device detonating in the Rift, would that be enough to finish him? Or would Jack Harkness still be here, living, waiting for an end that would never, ever arrive? Just existing?
Would he float away into space, stiff and frozen, rimed with ice, to drift into an eternity of blackness with only his memories for company?
Jack’s hand moved towards the lock on the cell door. Perhaps if he opened it, Zero would react.
‘Jack?’
He turned guiltily as Gwen stepped into the cell corridor. ‘Jack?’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve been looking into something on the net.’
Jack felt as if he had to haul his attention back out of a deep pit. ‘What?’
‘The Undertaker’s Gift. I’ve done every kind of scan I can for a temporal fusion device and there’s nothing showing up. If it’s hidden then it’s bloody well hidden. So I did an internet search on all things associated with undertakers and came across something interesting.’
‘Hit me.’
‘There’s a student blog entry that talks about a night-time funeral procession in the middle of Cardiff.’
Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘The blog also mentions Torchwood.’
SEVENTEEN
Ray and Wynnie bolted to the gap in the railings and scrambled through in a tangle of arms, legs and rucksack. Wynnie stumbled, fell, swore, and Ray helped him up. Without a word, they sprinted together for another half a mile before both of them had run out of breath.
They leaned against a wall, panting hard. Ray’s lungs were burning and Wynnie could barely speak.
‘What. . . what. . .’ he gasped, swallowing with difficulty. He pointed back the way they had come. ‘It was them! The people you saw last night!’
Ray nodded. She literally couldn’t speak. Her heart was banging away in her chest and she was beginning to realise how incredibly unfit she’d got. Not that she had ever actually been fit in the first place.
‘I’ve never been so scared,’ Wynnie began, and then, quite unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘I mean. . .’
Ray looked at him, aghast. How could he find this funny? She looked back the way they had come, but there was no sign of any pursuit. She heaved a sigh and rubbed at her sternum; her chest was really burning. ‘What’s so funny?’
Wynnie was still chuckling. ‘I haven’t run like that since I was a kid.’
‘I’ve never. . . run like that,’ said Ray. ‘Ever.’ And then she started to smile too.
In less than a moment they were both laughing, guiltily choking back the noise because they knew that there was no way they should find this funny.
‘It’s nervous tension,’ Wynnie giggled.
They clung to each other for a few minutes, slowly getting their breath back. There was no sign of pursuit. In fact, there was no one else at all nearby.
‘Those were definitely the guys I saw last night,’ Ray said at last. ‘They creeped me out then and they did it just now, in broad daylight. They’re just so. . . horrible. They make me feel dirty just seeing them.’
‘Yeah, well, they’re all done up like something from Halloween,’ Wynnie observed. ‘I bet they’re having a right laugh at us now.’
‘You think?’ Ray sounded doubtful and Wynnie shrugged. Ray felt sure that the strange, dark figures were utterly bereft of any sense of humour. ‘Do you think we should go back and look aga
in? See if they’re still there?’
‘No way,’ Wynnie said quickly.
‘Wait a sec,’ Ray said, reaching for her mobile. She opened it and speed-dialled Gillian. It rang a couple of times and then switched to her familiar voicemail response:
‘Hi you’re through to Gillian. I can’t take your call right now, but if you’re interesting enough I’ll get back to you soon. Cheers.’
Ray flipped the phone shut. ‘No answer.’
‘Busy?’
‘Gillian screens her calls – she’d pick up if she knew it was me calling. And besides, she’s supposed to be waiting for us at the Black House.’
‘If she saw those guys hanging around then she probably took off double quick, like we did.’
Ray frowned at the silent mobile in her hand. ‘Then why hasn’t she called to tell me that?’
EIGHTEEN
They convened in the Boardroom. Jack tried to keep the meeting informal by perching on the edge of the table. ‘So, what we got?’
‘OK,’ said Gwen, sitting up. ‘Here it is.’ She used the remote control to bring up the internet blog entry on the main screen. Several words were highlighted: funeral, cortège, Torchwood.
Ianto peered at the screen. ‘It’s by a student at Cardiff University.’
‘It seems the world and his wife and even their kids have heard of us now.’ Jack had never liked Torchwood getting any kind of publicity.’
‘A special force called Torchwood,’ Ianto read out appreciatively. Then his lips curled down in distaste. ‘“Like the X-Files but in Cardiff”. Huh. Dream on, Mulder.’
‘I always thought he was quite a fox,’ said Jack.
‘Please,’ Ianto said. ‘Any more and my sides will split.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘Who are these people, really? The person writing the blog, I mean?’
Gwen called up an ID document on the screen – it was a Student Union card complete with photo of a pale, rather plain-looking girl with dark hair and heavy black eyeliner. ‘The blog is written by one Rachel Banks, undergraduate. Born 16 April 1990, Leicester. Nothing special, nothing outrageous, nothing abnormal. Parents split up when she was thirteen, dad went out to work in Dubai, she lived with her mam in Bristol. Came to Cardiff to study Ecology, but according to her course tutor is likely to switch to Zoology at the end of the year. Staying in digs in Colum Road.’
‘And Wynnie?’ prompted Jack.
‘Meredydd-Wyn Morgan-Kelso,’ said Gwen, flicking the remote. A different Student Union ID pass came up on the screen. This one showed a picture of a tall, thin lad with unkempt blond hair, facial studs and rather soft brown eyes. ‘Born 24 November 1985, Hengoed. Nothing special, nothing outrageous, nothing abnormal – unless you count an abiding interest in Heavy Metal, comics and a post-grad research position at Cardiff School of Chemistry – he’s currently completing an MSc in Catalysis. And, of course, there’s his name. Bit of a mouthful, hence “Wynnie”. I think it’s rather nice.’
‘What do you call a double double-barrelled name?’ wondered Ianto.
‘Quadruple-barrelled?’ Jack suggested.
‘Whatever,’ said Gwen. ‘I’m guessing he’s a mate, boyfriend, it doesn’t matter. But he’s the one who mentions Torchwood.’
‘And what does he know about us?’
‘I doubt he knows anything. He’s heard the name, that’s all. He’s a member of the university astronomy club, writes for the Union website and once subscribed to Fortean Times.’
‘Uh-oh,’ said Ianto.
‘So where is all this leading us?’ Jack asked.
Gwen smiled. ‘I tracked Rachel Banks’s online activity. Knowing she was a blogger it seemed likely that she uses the web for most things, including shopping. She bought a mobile phone last August and so I traced the number and the most recent calls. She’s in regular contact with Meredydd-Wyn Morgan-Kelso, but this morning she took a call from another student. . .’ Gwen tapped the remote control a couple of times and a female voice with a strong Valleys accent filled the boardroom:
‘No, no, don’t be daft. I was at the party, remember. You’d been drinking but you definitely weren’t pissed. Not that much anyway. But it was the blog you see, I couldn’t believe it when I read it. Is it true? Did you see it as well?’
Rachel’s voice: ‘What do you mean, “as well”?’
‘Well, I saw it too! I saw the funeral!’
Jack’s eyes narrowed and Ianto looked up sharply. Gwen used the remote to fast-forward through some more of the conversation. ‘Hang on, there’s some romance stuff next. I’ll cut to the chase.’
Rachel Banks’s voice crackled back: ‘Look, where are you, Gillian? Can’t we talk properly? I’ll meet you somewhere.’
‘Right! Sure. You can tell me all about it then. Say, meet me at the Black House.’
‘The Black House?’
Jack frowned and mouthed, ‘The Black House?’
The Valleys girl was still chattering. ‘Yeah. That’s where I saw the funeral thing. I’m on my way there now. Meet you there, right?’
‘And there you have it.’ Gwen killed the recording with the remote control. ‘Rachel Banks and this Gillian person, both claiming to have seen the mystery funeral cortège in the early hours of this morning, and a location.’
‘The Black House is an abandoned church near Cyncoed,’ Ianto said. ‘It was scheduled to be knocked down in 1966, ready for a redevelopment that never happened. There’s nothing there now – just the shell of the church and waste ground. The developers pulled out unexpectedly and no one has ever taken it up.’
‘I’ve already checked it for signs of Rift activity,’ Gwen said. ‘There are quite a few level-five temporal energy spikes in the area stretching over a two-week period, peaking last night. It looks like a definite winner.’
Jack didn’t look convinced. ‘These kids. . . they’re just students. We’ve run into this kind of thing before. They invent stuff without even realising it. I once spent an entire summer running around trying to trace a suspected Golgothron gambling ring in the Old Brewery Quarter. Turned out to be the University First XV playing strip poker.’ His eyes glimmered for a second at the recollection. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, that was an interesting case in its way. . . but not Torchwood business.’
‘We can’t ignore this, Jack,’ insisted Gwen. ‘It’s the only possible lead we have.’
‘It’s really not much of one at all.’
Ianto held up a hand. ‘And yet. . . there may be something in it.’
‘What?’ Jack demanded.
‘I checked through some of the archive material.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing much in relation to the Undertaker’s Gift or space-time fusion bombs,’ Ianto said, ‘but there was one case that caught my eye.’ He opened the manila folder on the desk and took out some sheets of yellowed, typewritten foolscap paper. ‘This is a report written in 1919 by Torchwood operative Harkness, J.’ He glanced up at Jack. ‘Looking good for your age.’
‘It’s all down to clean living,’ Jack said.
‘What’s the report about?’ Gwen asked.
‘It’s a missing person report – but there was a Rift angle and so it fell into Torchwood’s jurisdiction. The country was still in a state of turmoil following the end of the First World War, and quite a number of soldiers, many horrifically injured, were trying to make a life in post-war Britain. There was little in the way of rehabilitation programmes. Some of the men were so badly wounded that they would never be allowed a place in normal society again – men with half their faces blown off, or no hands, or completely limbless. They were sent to stay in special hospitals, kept apart from the rest of the world because they were deemed to be too badly mutilated to be seen.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Gwen.
‘That’s war,’ said Jack knowingly.
‘A disused church was converted into a hospice for some of these men,’ Ianto continued, ‘including 23-year-old Corporal Francis M
organ of the Welsh Fusiliers. He was injured at Ypres and sent home to recover. He went missing en route from France.’
‘I remember that case now,’ Jack said. ‘Harriet Derbyshire had been looking into it. Torchwood took an interest because one of the guys Morgan was travelling back with made a statement to the police when he disappeared. He claimed this Francis Morgan had been abducted.’
‘By aliens?’ Gwen ventured.
‘No such thing in those days,’ Jack smiled. ‘At least, not in the conscious mind of ordinary folk. No, but Morgan’s pal said he’d seen the men who took him away.’
Ianto held up the foolscap report and read part of it out: ‘“It were unbelievable. But I saw it with my own eyes. I think they must have been gypsies – Romanies who fought with the French against the Hun. They were walking wounded themselves, I reckon. They wore ragged old clothes and their faces were all bandaged up, burned in all probability.”’ Ianto looked up at Gwen and Jack. ‘Sound familiar?’
‘It’s the men Rachel Banks described,’ Gwen realised, excited.
‘It carries on,’ Ianto said, tapping the report. ‘“They came in one night and took Frank away. He couldn’t do much to resist, being in the condition he was, and I couldn’t help him either. But I picked up my crutches and followed them out anyway. It was a bright, moonlit night and I could see it all quite clearly – even with one eye. They never said a word, those gypsies, but there were quite a few of them. They formed a procession, like a funeral cortège. It was very sinister, and it was cold, and I couldn’t see what they’d done with Frank. I called out to them but they just ignored me, and then set off, slow-like, as if they were pallbearers at a burial. And then the weirdest thing happened. They just disappeared. Literally vanished into thin air. I wasn’t seeing things. I might have lost a leg and I may be blind in one eye, but there’s nothing wrong with my brains and I know what I saw.”’
As Ianto closed the file, Jack said, ‘No one ever saw Francis Morgan again.’
The Undertakers Gift Page 7