‘The blues,’ said Jack suddenly. ‘That’s what it’s got.’
Ianto looked at him. ‘As in Rhythm and Blues? As in R ’n’ B?’
‘It’s more than a signal, Ianto. It’s a cry for help.’
Ianto looked back at Zero, who simply sat there, unmoving.
‘Help from us?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jack moved to the window, squatting down so that his eyes were roughly level with the creature’s head. ‘That’s no bomb. It’s alien, it’s lost, it’s a long, long way from home. It’s come through the Rift and it can’t even communicate with us. It can’t even touch us.’
‘It packs a 50,000-volt charge. It’s probably scared to touch itself.’
‘No, no, listen.’ Jack stood up, his eyes and intense blue. ‘What if it’s keeping still as some kind of defence? Like a lizard when it thinks it’s been seen – it freezes, still as a statue. Hopes the prey doesn’t notice it and walks on by.’
Ianto looked sceptical. ‘It’s sitting there in Cell One thinking, “If I keep still and don’t move a muscle, they’ll never know I’m here”?’ Meaning that it’s not a bomb, just alien, lost and incredibly stupid?’
‘I don’t know. We may never know. Some things in the universe are just unknowable, Ianto. But ten gets you one that poor creature is scared half to death and just hoping to God that it can somehow get back home.’
Ianto looked sadly at Zero. ‘It’s going to be disappointed.’
‘It’s crying out for help – in a way we can’t even understand, let alone hear. It’s not ultrasonic, or telepathic, or anything we can register. But it’s screaming, Ianto, and the Rift sensors are picking it up.’ Jack gently spread his fingertips on the glass partition. ‘And check it out now. Does it look different to you, since we brought it in?’
‘Not really – it hasn’t budged an inch. Well. . .’ Ianto squinted at it, scratched his head, puffed out his cheeks. ‘All right, maybe, just maybe, it’s a bit thinner. Like it’s lost weight.’
‘Like it’s looking more human,’ Jack nodded. ‘When we found it, Zero was just a big blob of orange jello. By the time we got it back to the Hub, it looked like a rough approximation of a human – blobby, but bipedal. And look at it now – just a bit more human, wouldn’t you say? The limbs are more defined, the head smaller.’
‘It’s trying to make itself look like us,’ Ianto realised in a whisper. ‘Gradually changing shape and structure to resemble a human being.’
‘Camouflage. Trying to blend in. Another defensive measure? OK, it’s not very convincing – it still looks like it’s made from half a tonne of marmalade, but it’s trying. It can’t hope to copy us exactly because it’s never encountered human beings before. . . But it can’t help trying.’
And now when Ianto looked at Zero he saw something incredibly sad and pathetic – unknowable, but more lost and more forlorn than anything he had ever known before. And the little, oscillating zigzag on his PDA screen was a silent, sub-etheric wail of despair.
‘What can we do?’ he asked quietly, stepping closer to Jack.
Jack put his arm around Ianto’s shoulders, pulling him closer. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’
And then the intruder alarms started clanging.
TWENTY-FOUR
The klaxons were still howling and warning lights strobed wildly as Jack and Ianto sprinted into the Hub.
‘What the hell—’ began Jack.
The alarm continued to whoop as Ianto shouted, ‘The defence systems have detected an incoming matter transmission!’
In the centre of the Hub, something was materialising.
‘Assassin!’ realised Jack, already pulling his gun from its holster.
The fizz of energy coalesced into a man standing by the base of the water tower. He was tall and thin and dark and already turning to face them as Jack pulled the trigger on the Webley. The noise of the gunshot crashed around the Hub, and for a second everything seemed to freeze.
Ianto crouched, fumbling for his gun, a look of horror and fear on his ashen face.
Jack stood tall, erect, arm extended like a signpost to death. The revolver was held firmly in one hand, level with his eyes, which shone with a steely purpose through the smoke that swirled around his fist.
The man by the water tower threw his head back and his arms out wide. The .38 had entered his chest, upper left, a heart shot. The bullet, travelling at over 225 metres per second and spinning like a drill bit, splintered a rib and punched a large hole right through the right ventricle. The metal tore open arteries, shredded veins and ripped a chunk out of the lung, before exiting between the man’s shoulders in a dark splatter. He teetered for a moment and then fell backwards with a startled choke as the blood surged up his windpipe and out of his mouth.
He hit the metal floor with a heavy clatter and time began to flow once more.
Ianto ran over, automatic now drawn and aimed at the intruder in a two-handed grip, ready to deliver a kill shot to the head if necessary.
But Jack had skidded to a halt by the fallen man and now he fell to his knees with a gasp of despair. The man’s features were alien – white-faced, narrow-eyed, with a dark mouth. Green, inky blood dripped onto the floor and a top hat lay discarded nearby, dropped the moment he had been shot.
‘I don’t believe it,’ groaned Jack, looking up at Ianto. ‘I’ve just shot Harold!’
TWENTY-FIVE
‘She’s still not answering her phone,’ said Ray. ‘It’s not like her. I’m starting to get worried.’
‘Chill,’ said Wynnie. ‘She’s probably just dropped it somewhere. You know what she’s like.’
His words hung in the air for a moment, and Ray tried to think it through. Nothing about this made sense. But nothing about anything in her life seemed to make sense now.
‘Hey,’ she heard Wynnie say. And then his hand was on her shoulder, warm even through her jacket. ‘You OK?’
Ray wiped furiously at her eyes and sniffed. ‘You must think I’m such a fool.’
‘No, I don’t. If you like we could go back, take another look.’
She blinked at him. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Truthfully? No.’ Wynnie heaved a sigh. ‘I haven’t been so scared since Mr Daniels caught me hanging around the girls’ hockey changing rooms in Year 9. But. . . if it’ll make you feel better, we’ll go back.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘Come on, let’s go. We know what to expect this time.’
Ray stood up and looked closely at him. His eyes were so pale and so honest. She couldn’t imagine him ever lying to anyone. ‘Wynnie. . .’
He raised his eyebrows in that funny way of his.
‘I just want you to know. . .’
They rose a little more.
‘I. . . I’m. . . I’m really glad you’re here with me.’
‘That’s good. Cos I’m really glad I’m here with you too.’
There was a pause and neither of them seemed to know what to say next.
‘Come on,’ said Wynnie eventually. Still holding her hand, he led her back towards the Black House.
TWENTY-SIX
‘Harold?’ said Ianto.
Jack helped the fallen man into a sitting position, but it was obvious that he was beyond help. Fresh green blood was running out of his mouth. Jack had produced a clean white handkerchief and jammed it against the bubbling wound in his chest, but the material was quickly soaked through.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jack whispered. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know—’
Harold licked his lips but only managed the faintest of croaks.
‘I thought you were an assassin,’ Jack insisted. ‘We were expecting a gunman.’
Harold swallowed the blood in his throat and tried to speak again. ‘Came. . . here. . . to help. . .’
Jack held him close. ‘You said someone would come – a killer.’
‘Not me, you fool.’ Harold’s eyes flickered and the ve
rtical pupils narrowed to tiny slits in the amber irises.
‘Check the Hub security sensors,’ Jack instructed Ianto. ‘We’re still on red alert. If Harold teleported in then someone else could too. They might have already snuck in on his transmat signal.’
Ianto nodded and withdrew. Jack turned back to Harold, who was fading fast. His eyes fluttered closed and his breathing had become irregular and extremely shallow. Jack could feel the alien’s cold green blood seeping through his own shirt.
‘No chance. . . of survival. . .’ Harold whispered.
‘You’ll be OK,’ Jack insisted. ‘We’ll fix you up. . .’
‘Under. . .taker’s. . .Gift. . .’ Harold’s voice had dropped to nothing more than a breath – perhaps his last.
Startled, Jack pulled him closer, dipped his ear towards the blood-smeared lips. ‘What? What do you know about the Undertaker’s Gift?’
Long seconds passed while Harold summoned his last moments of life. ‘Hokrala. . . don’t understand. . . what they’ve set in motion. . .’
‘What?’ Jack demanded. ‘What have they set in motion?’
‘The end of everything. . . a world of suffering.’ Harold coughed weakly, wetly, and a violent convulsion ran through his body. Jack tightened his grip as the alien’s legs began to flail. His last seconds would see his nervous system overwhelmed with the pain of death.
But then the alien’s hand suddenly grasped Jack’s sleeve and pulled him closer, allowing him to breathe his final words:
‘Already dead. . .’
‘No you’re not, Harold. Stay with me. We can get help. . .’
‘Already dead. . . are here. . .’
All movement left Harold’s body then, and he became nothing more than meat and bone. Jack lowered him gently to the floor and then sat back thoughtfully. He felt as if a vast, crushing weight had sudden come to rest on his shoulders.
‘We’re secure,’ Ianto said, returning. ‘I’ve reset the alarms.’ He paused, seeing Jack bent over the body. ‘Jack? Are you all right?’
‘He’s gone.’ Jack climbed to his feet and took a deep breath.
Ianto pulled his gaze away from the corpse and looked at Jack. ‘Were you close?’
‘Not really. But I never wanted to shoot the guy.’
‘That’s really. . .’ Ianto struggled for something to say and finished with ‘. . . bad luck.’
‘Yeah, you could say that.’ Jack frowned then, noticing something on the floor. It was a small plastic box about the size of a paperback book, lying near to Harold’s outstretched hand.
Ianto picked it up, puzzled. ‘It’s a video cassette.’
‘It’s a message,’ Jack realised. ‘Harold brought it with him. He was trying to tell me something about the Undertaker’s Gift.’
‘But a video?’ Ianto wasn’t impressed. ‘It’s not even a DVD. . .’
‘It’s worse than that,’ said Jack, taking the cassette. His shoulders slumped. ‘It’s a Betamax.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
At the Black House it was still eerily quiet, but there was no sign of the dark men.
‘They’ve gone,’ Ray said. She didn’t know now whether to be relieved or disappointed. And, to her surprise, she realised that Wynnie was still holding her hand and a giddy rush of pleasure seeped through her whole body.
But then Wynnie let go of her hand to point towards the tree line. ‘There’s someone coming.’
For a second they almost panicked, until they realised it was just a woman – young, long black hair, rather striking in a leather motorcycle jacket and boots.
‘Hi,’ she said, without preamble or any kind of hesitation. She was clearly used to talking directly to complete strangers. ‘Is this the Black House?’
‘Uh, yeah,’ said Wynnie.
‘Who wants to know?’ Ray asked. The woman was older and taller and more attractive than she was, and it suddenly felt important that she kept close to Wynnie.
‘I’m Gwen Cooper,’ the woman said. She smiled at them. ‘You must be Rachel Banks and Meredydd-Wyn Morgan-Kelso.’
Both of them simply stood still and said nothing for a full five seconds. Ray felt a strange fear creep all over her, as if something had changed in her life that would alter things for ever, change things in ways that she couldn’t even imagine. There was a sudden, dizzying feeling of everything being out of control now, of finding that she was little more than a leaf blown by the wind – at the mercy of forces she could never comprehend or withstand.
‘Oh shit,’ Wynnie said eventually. ‘You’re Torchwood, aren’t you?’
Gwen Cooper just shrugged her shoulders. ‘Is this where you saw the funeral procession?’
‘Near here, yes,’ nodded Wynnie. ‘Apparently.’
Ray looked at him. ‘Apparently?’
‘Well, I didn’t see it. You did.’
‘It was around here, yes,’ Ray conceded. She spoke to Gwen. ‘How did you know? I mean, I’m assuming you read my blog, but. . .’
‘I told you not to mention Torchwood,’ Wynnie hissed.
‘We just want to find out what’s going on,’ Gwen told her. ‘Like you.’
‘I don’t want to make anything official,’ Ray said. ‘I mean, I don’t want to go to the police or anything. I could’ve done that, but I didn’t. I don’t want the authorities involved.’
‘Of course not,’ Gwen agreed. ‘Anyway, we’re not the authorities.’
‘Aren’t you a government department or something?’ Wynnie asked.
‘We deal with things that are too important to be left to the government or the police.’
Wynnie scratched his head. ‘You’re not going to wipe our memories, are you?’
‘No,’ said Gwen. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
Wynnie smiled but Ray felt a flash of annoyance. ‘I’m really not bothered about Torchwood or whatever you are or with creepy funerals or anything. Right now, I just want to find my friend. She said she was going to meet us here and now she’s missing and she won’t answer her phone.’
‘Gillian,’ nodded Gwen.
Wynnie gaped. ‘God, do you know everything about us?’
‘Not everything, no.’
‘Do you know where Gillian is?’ Ray asked.
‘No, but I might be able to help you find her. Try her mobile again.’
Ray looked immediately suspicious. ‘What do you mean – again?’ She bristled. ‘Have you been listening in on my phone calls?’
‘Do you want to find your friend or not?’
‘We’ve already tried her phone,’ Wynnie explained. ‘She’s not answering.’
Ray folded her arms. ‘My mobile’s gone dead anyway. Battery’s done in.’
‘Use mine,’ Gwen said, tossing her own mobile over.
Ray caught it and dialled Gillian’s number. A moment later they all heard a tinny, strangulated version of ‘Kiss You Off’ ringing out from somewhere nearby.
Ray and Wynnie both whirled around. ‘Bloody hell! That’s Gillian’s phone!’
‘It’s around here somewhere,’ Gwen confirmed.
Wynnie homed in on the ringtone just before the mobile cut over to voicemail. It was lying face down in a patch of scrubby, dead grass in the centre of the Black House. He picked it up and showed the display to Ray.
‘Five missed calls from me,’ Ray realised. ‘And one unknown.’ She looked down at Gwen’s mobile in her hand and slowly closed it.
‘She must’ve dropped it,’ Wynnie said.
‘No,’ Ray disagreed. ‘She wouldn’t drop it – not Gillian. She might be a lot of things but she’s careful with her phone because it’s her life.’
Even as she said the words she regretted it. Because suddenly it seemed that the three of them were looking at all that remained of Gillian, lying in the palm of Wynnie’s hand.
‘She’s been murdered,’ Ray moaned. ‘I know she has.’
‘Perhaps,’ Gwen said carefully, ‘she dropped her mobile on purpose.’
‘You mean like a clue?’ wondered Wynnie. He looked sceptical. ‘C’mon. That’s way too cool for Gillian.’
Gwen was kicking at the dried grass and soil where the phone had been found. Wynnie realised what she was doing and joined in. They quickly cleared away a large patch of weeds and Gwen gave a shout.
‘Here we go,’ she said.
There was a large square shape cut into the stone. The crack that formed the perimeter was clear of dirt and free of grass, and the shape was unmistakable. A trapdoor of some kind. It had been opened recently and someone had tried to conceal it with a patch of dead vegetation.
‘Might lead to a cellar or something.’ Wynnie dropped to one knee and began to feel around for a handle. ‘This was a church once, remember.’
‘Churches don’t often have cellars,’ Gwen said thoughtfully. ‘But they do have crypts.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘There you go,’ said Ianto, setting a large box down on Jack’s desk. ‘Told you it wouldn’t be a problem. One Betamax video recorder, brand new, still in its box, top-loader. Fell through the Rift from 1982 in May 2008.’
‘And you knew exactly where to find that?’ Jack looked impressed.
‘Cataloguing and storage. It’s in my job description.’
‘It is?’
‘Everything in its place and a place for everything, as the actress said to the bishop.’ Ianto fussed around, connecting a nest of wires from the VCR to one of the ancient black-and-white TV sets in the corner of Jack’s office. He slid Harold’s cassette into the large silver machine and they watched as the old Magpie TV warmed up, the screen slowly filling with interference before jerking into life as the video started to play.
Harold’s sharp, white features filled the little screen and his voice crackled out of the speaker.
‘Sorry about the use of such primitive technology, dear boy,’ he said. ‘The twenty-first century is so retro it’s untrue. Hope I’ve got it right, anyway. If you’re watching this then I’m probably already dead – I think there might be a couple of Hokrala heavies on my tail and I’m rather afraid they mean business.’
The Undertakers Gift Page 9