Bay of the Dead

by Mark Morris

  'I heard something,' she said.

  'One of those Weevil things, was it?'

  'I heard a scream. Thought I heard a scream. It woke me up. Then I heard a clatter, like a dustbin lid falling off.'

  'Want me to go have a look?'

  She couldn't help smiling. 'Don't be daft. If anyone's going to go, it should be me.'

  Rhys looked offended. 'Hey, you might be a rough, tough defender of the planet at work, Mrs Williams, but let a bloke have a bit of pride in his own home.'

  Gwen chuckled and kissed him on the forehead. 'Fine. We'll go together.'

  Two minutes later they had dragged on clothes and boots and were hurrying down the stairs of the apartment block. Ignoring the front door, they headed towards the heavily bolted door at the back of the building, which led out into the narrow alleyway threading between their street and the one parallel. Gwen reached the door as Rhys was still thumping down the last flight of stairs, and began drawing back the thick bolts.

  'Let me go first,' Rhys panted.

  Gwen used one hand to twist the catch on the door and the other to produce her Torchwood-issue semi-automatic from inside her leather jacket.

  'I'm the one with the gun,' she replied, raising her eyebrows.

  Rhys pulled a face. 'Come on, love, bit of an overreaction, don't you think? Not every disturbance in Cardiff is caused by psychotic aliens, you know. It's more likely to be Betty Prudom's cat.'

  'I know, but still. . . better safe than sorry,' Gwen said and slipped outside.

  By the time Rhys had followed her into the chill drizzle of the night, Gwen was already stalking down the alley, black and silent, looking not unlike a cat herself. Her shadow stretching out long and thin before her, she moved towards the brick extension jutting from the rear of the building, which narrowed the alley still further and hid the line of dustbins from view.

  Rhys hurried towards her, footsteps crackling on the wet ground. She turned and placed a finger to her lips. He rolled his eyes.

  'Listen,' she whispered.

  He listened. Something was moving in the alley, shuffling around near the bins. Something that sounded bigger than a cat.

  Left hand cupped around her right, in which she held her gun, Gwen crept forward. She reached the wall, flattened her back against it, sidled up to the edge and peered around the corner.

  She went very still. Rhys was beside her now, feeling like a bit of a spare part.

  'Well?' he hissed. 'What can you see?'

  Her head jerked round to look at him, hair swishing across her face. Her eyes were wide, face taut with disbelief.

  'What is it, Gwen? Talk to me,' he said.

  Suddenly she was a blur of movement. Instead of replying, she swung out into the alley, body poised and balanced, arms extended, gun pointing at whatever was moving about by the bins.

  'Get up slowly,' she barked. 'Keep your hands where I can see them.'

  For a split second Rhys wondered whether he ought to stay where he was, out of sight. Then he thought, Sod that, and moved across to stand beside his wife.

  He had a clear view of the alley now, all the way to the sagging chain-link fence at the far end. To their immediate right, snug against the back of the house, was a line of metal dustbins, one per flat, each with a big white number painted on its lid.

  Rhys barely registered any of this. He was too busy goggling at the figure squatting on the ground no more than five metres away. He shuddered as a wave of revulsion and cold, prickling fear swept through him.

  The man – a tramp, judging by the rags he was wearing – was eating a cat. Rhys thought it might be the old ginger tom which belonged to Betty, their downstairs neighbour, but it was hard to be sure. The poor animal had been ripped apart and devoured, like a roast chicken at a medieval banquet. Most of its remains were lying on the ground at the man's feet, a mangled mass of fur and gore. Even now, as if oblivious to their presence, the man was gnawing on one of the animal's detached limbs, his chin and clothes smeared liberally in blood and guts.

  'Oh, Christ,' Rhys muttered, 'that's disgusting.'

  Gwen glanced at him, then turned back to the man. 'I told you to stand up!' she shouted.

  The man paused, and then he cocked his head in a strangely animalistic way, as if Gwen's voice was very faint and it was taking him a long time to register her words.

  And then his head snapped up with a sudden, horrible jerk, and they saw his face properly for the first time.

  'Oh God,' Rhys murmured.

  The man had no nose. Just a hole where his nose should have been. And his eyes were milky white. And his skin, dry and brown like old leaves, was stretched so tightly across the jutting bones of his skull that his mouth seemed lipless, exposing his black gums and blocky, meat-clogged teeth. As the man lurched upright, Rhys noticed other things about him too. He noticed that one of the man's fingers was missing at the second knuckle, and that the bone was sticking out like a splintered stick; he noticed that the man's feet were bare, and that the skin covering them had split in places, to reveal the sinews and tendons beneath.

  And he noticed the smell. The awful, stomach-churning stench of something dead.

  The man let out a sound from his ravaged throat, a horrible animal sound that was somewhere between a groan and a snarl. Then he raised his gore-gloved hands and lurched towards them.

  'Get back!' Gwen screamed at him. 'Get back, or God help me, I'll shoot you!'

  The man didn't even falter. He came at them, his face twisting into an expression of malice that was somehow mindless, utterly devoid of conscious thought.

  Gwen shot him. The bullet blasted into his shoulder, leaving a sizeable hole, chunks of flesh and bone flying in all directions.

  The man spun and fell, knocked back by the impact. Lowering her gun slightly, but still wary, Gwen took a step towards him.

  The man scrambled to his feet and lurched towards them again. Gwen stepped back, almost slipping. Rhys grabbed her arm.

  'Come on, love. You're not going to stop him. Let's just run.'

  Gwen looked shaken and bewildered. She nodded, and the two of them ran back to the door leading into the apartment block. However, the door was on a spring and had clicked shut behind them. Mouth dry, Rhys delved into his jeans pocket with a trembling hand. It was a tight fit and the key ring was tangled up with all sorts of other stuff – loose change, a crumpled tissue, receipts from work.

  'Come on, Rhys,' Gwen said. 'It's right behind us.'

  'I'm trying,' he said.

  'Well, try a bit harder.'

  Rhys could hear the shuffling approach of the thing coming up behind them. Could hear its awful snarling groan. Snarling himself, he grabbed the key ring and wrenched. Money and paper flew out of his pocket, but he didn't care. With fingers that felt fat and clumsy, he found the right key and shoved it into the lock. The key turned, the door opened, and they tumbled into the building.

  Gwen slammed the door shut and slid the bolts home, while Rhys, his legs suddenly very shaky, sank to the floor. He was sweating and gasping, as though he had just run the 400 metres. He clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking.

  Gwen stepped back from the door as a heavy weight slammed against it from the other side. The thing growled in apparent frustration, and continued to slam against the door, as though unable to understand why it couldn't get at them.

  Rhys looked up at Gwen, who was blinking and taking deep breaths.

  'I'm not imagining it, am I?' he said. 'That bloke was dead, wasn't he?'

  Gwen rolled her eyes, shrugged and snorted out a laugh that had no humour in it whatsoever. Then she took her mobile out of her pocket.

  'I'm calling Jack,' she said.

  THREE

  'You ready yet, Kirst?' called Sophie, pushing open the door of the ladies'.

  'Two more minutes,' Kirsty shouted back. 'Just putting my face on.'

  It had been a busy night in El Puerto, the fish and meat restaurant located in the Old
Custom House, just across the road from Penarth Marina. But then every night in El Puerto was busy. The place was an incessant buzz of energy and conviviality and, from the beginning to the end of their shift, Sophie Gould and her best friend Kirsty Lane were constantly on the move, scurrying between tables, taking orders, pouring wine and champagne, and delivering plates of red snapper, steaming lobster and sea bass to hungry punters. It was hard work, but they loved it, and the tips alone were almost enough to pay for a decent night out.

  As Kirsty finally emerged from the loo, snapping shut her sequinned shoulder bag, Terry, the deputy manager, appeared from behind the display counter, wiping his hands on a tea towel.

  'You two must really love this place,' he said.

  'Been getting ready, haven't we?' said Kirsty.

  'We're going clubbing,' Sophie added.

  'Blimey, you've got some stamina, I'll say that for you.'

  Kirsty winked at him. 'A lot more than you could handle, mate.'

  She was tiny and raven-haired, with big brown eyes, and it was obvious to Sophie that Terry fancied her rotten. As the deputy manager blushed through a grin, Sophie said, 'Come on, Kirst, let's be off. Save your flirting muscles for later.'

  Saying goodnight to Terry, they tottered towards the door on their heels. They were almost there when he called after them. 'By the way, while you two were out back beautifying yourselves, you missed all the excitement.'

  Kirsty glanced back at him. 'What excitement was that, then?'

  'There's something going on down by the Marina, isn't there,' he told them. 'They've cordoned it all off. There's police, ambulances, the lot.'

  Now Kirsty turned her big, shining eyes on her friend. She loved a bit of drama. 'Hey, come on, Soph, let's have a nosy.'

  Sophie sighed. She'd much rather be downing a spritzer in a nice bar than standing out in the cold, but she knew there was no stopping Kirsty when she got a bee in her bonnet.

  'Two minutes, tops,' she conceded. 'I'm not standing around all night.'

  They went outside. It was not hard to identify the site of the incident. Quite a crowd had already gathered behind a sizeable barrier of fluorescent yellow tape. A standing metal sign read: POLICE RESTRICTED ZONE. Parked within the barrier were a pair of ambulances and four police cars, their blue lights flashing silently. Arc lamps had been set up down by the jetty and seemed to be trained on a yacht berthed beside a police patrol boat. Uniformed men milled everywhere.

  Kirsty tapped a fellow rubbernecker on the shoulder. He was an elderly gent with a white moustache, wearing a navy blue blazer, white slacks and white shoes. Sophie was pretty sure she'd seen him earlier in the restaurant.

  'What's going on, mister?' Kirsty asked.

  The elderly man looked her up and down before answering. When he opened his mouth to speak, Sophie noticed with distaste that his teeth were very yellow.

  'I've no idea,' he said waspishly. 'All I know is that I'm unable to get access to my boat. It's damned inconvenient.'

  A younger, thicker-set man turned round. His accent identified him as a local. 'They reckon there's been a murder.'

  'That's what the police have said, is it?' Sophie asked.

  'Well. . . not as such,' the man admitted. 'Not to me, anyway. But that's what everyone reckons.'

  Sophie touched her friend on the arm. 'Aw, c'mon, Kirst, let's go. Whatever's happening, we'll read about it in the paper tomorrow.'

  Kirsty had the expression of a little kid being dragged away from a funfair. 'Just a couple more minutes,' she pleaded.

  'What's the point? We won't find out anything. It's not like they're going to make an announce—'

  The end of her sentence was cut off by the roar of a powerful engine and the screech of brakes from behind them. She turned to see a shiny black SUV with smoked windows, lines of flickering blue lights edging the windscreen. The front doors opened and two men jumped out. One was a handsome, chisel-jawed man who looked to be somewhere in his late thirties. With his army greatcoat, navy blue shirt, braces, chinos and boots, he reminded Sophie of an old-fashioned hero from a boy's adventure comic. His companion was younger, grim-faced but kind of sweet-looking. He wore an immaculate charcoal-grey suit, a white shirt and a pink-and-purple striped silk tie, and was fiddling with his cufflinks as he emerged from the SUV. Sophie noticed that both men had fancy little Bluetooth devices attached to their ears, and wondered if they were 'spooks', like off the telly.

  'Make way, ladies and gentlemen. No photographs please,' the older man called in an American accent, cutting through the crowd. There was a wide and rather charming smile on his face and, whilst his voice was jocular, Sophie sensed that there was steel beneath his words.

  Beside her, Kirsty was staring at the new arrivals. 'Lush,' she breathed.

  They watched the two guys reach the police cordon and have a quick conversation with the officer on duty. They were quickly allowed through and hurried towards the yacht, the coat of the older man flowing behind him like a superhero's cape.

  'I wonder who they are,' said Sophie.

  'Dunno,' Kirsty replied dreamily, 'but they can enter my restricted zone any day.'

  'OK, boys and girls,' Jack said heartily, 'what have you got for us?'

  Ianto saw Detective Sergeant Swanson raise her eyebrows. She was a tall, slim, beautiful black woman in an immaculately tailored grey suit. The beads in her braided hair clicked gently together whenever she moved her head. She and Torchwood – and she and Jack in particular – had a love/hate relationship, which Jack seemed to revel in. In fact, Jack had once remarked that you could cook eggs on the heat of the sexual tension between him and the statuesque policewoman. Ianto hadn't been sure whether Jack was joking, and therefore couldn't now work out whether he ought to be jealous or not.

  'Well, well, look what the cat's dragged in,' Swanson said.

  She was standing with a colleague, a shorter, pudgy man in a wrinkled blue suit, who sniggered.

  'Which must make you the cat,' Jack said, and raised his eyebrows. 'You got the costume to go with that?'

  Swanson looked outraged. 'You don't honestly think I called you, do you, Jack? Why the hell would I want Torchwood stomping all over my investigation?'

  'Maybe you just can't resist my baby blue eyes,' Jack said.

  'Oh, please,' Swanson replied.

  'It was a Detective Inspector Myers who called us,' Ianto said a little stiffly.

  Swanson pulled a face. 'That figures.'

  'He said there were some unusual aspects to the case. In fact, his actual words were, "This one's weirder than a three-headed monkey."'

  Jack looked unimpressed. 'I dated a three-headed monkey once. What a summer that was!'

  'Is this just one big joke to you, Jack?' Swanson said. 'Because it isn't to me. Five boys have died here tonight.'

  The smile slipped from Jack's face. All at once he was sombre, business-like. 'What happened?'

  'Why don't you see for yourselves?' Swanson said. There was a challenge in her voice as she added, 'I hope you've got strong stomachs.'

  Jack flashed her a look, and he and Ianto hurried along the jetty towards the illuminated yacht. A team of forensics examiners, ghostly in their white all-in-ones, were moving around the deck, photographing evidence and making notes. Even from some distance away, Ianto saw that the gleaming fibreglass structure of the central cabin area was splashed liberally with blood. As he and Jack approached the boat, one of the officers spotted them and hurried over.

  'Can I help you?'

  'Captain Jack Harkness – Torchwood,' Jack said importantly.

  'Ianto Jones,' said Ianto.

  'Oh, so you're the famous Torchwood, are you?' said the officer, trying to look blasé. 'I'm Guy Baker, SOCO on this investigation. I take it you know the rules?'

  'Rules are for—' Jack began, but Ianto jumped in.

  'Don't touch anything. Don't contaminate the crime scene,' he recited.

  'That's it.' Baker wafted a hand, as th
ough inviting them aboard. 'Aside from that, have fun.'

  Jack and Ianto stepped across the divide between jetty and deck, Ianto trying to keep his expression neutral as he looked around. There were pools and splashes of blood all over the deck, not to mention a copious amount of human remains. Most of the remains were unidentifiable – nothing but shreds and gobbets of mangled flesh and bone – but here and there were body parts that were patently, stomach-churningly human. Ianto saw a hand with two fingers missing, but part of the arm still attached; a section of gnawed ribcage; a long bone that might have been a femur; a head whose face was mercifully obscured by blood-matted hair.

  Grim-faced, Jack asked Baker, 'So what are we looking at here? Animal attack?'

  Baker shook his head. 'No. Believe it or not, the killers were human.'

  Jack and Ianto glanced at each other. 'How many?' asked Jack.

  'So far we've identified bite marks from thirteen different sets of teeth.'

  'Unlucky for some,' Ianto murmured.

  'And the victims were killed how?' Jack asked.

  Baker spread his hands, as if he couldn't quite believe his own findings. 'As far as we can tell, they were simply. . . torn apart. Evidence suggests that the attackers used their bare hands to murder their victims and then cannibalised the bodies. Devoured them, in fact.'

  Ianto placed a hand over his mouth and said nothing. He was thinking of cannibals up in the Brecon Beacons, not long after Gwen had joined Torchwood. The memory was not a happy one.

  Jack was equally silent for a moment, and then he said, 'Detective Swanson said there were five victims?'

  Baker nodded. 'We think they were all Cardiff University students. We found a couple of NUS cards among the debris.'

  'What about the perpetrators?' Ianto asked.

  'No sign. We think they must have pulled up in a boat alongside the yacht.'

  'Won't there be a record of them in that case?' said Jack.

  'We're looking into that now.'

  'OK. Well, keep up the good work, Guy – and keep us informed. And now, if you don't mind, we'd like a little look round on our own.'