‘Mum, I’m thirty-eight. I don’t need to be looked after.’ He said this more harshly than he’d intended, and the silence at the other end of the line told him it had been noted. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m just feeling really rough right now. It’s not a good time.’
‘That’s why someone should come round,’ his mother said, relenting a little. ‘You need looking after, Bob. I always said so. Men can never look after themselves properly when they’re ill.’
‘No, really.’ Bob’s parents had moved up from Richmond to live in Hereford last year. It had been a big move for them at their age, but Robert Strong Senior was frailer than he liked to admit, and the bungalow had seemed like a good idea. His mother had come from Herefordshire originally, and she had always wanted to move back there, away from London. And Bob was not unaware of the fact that it brought both his parents that bit closer to where he now lived in Cardiff. It was only an hour’s drive from his own house to their new bungalow, and he realised now that he had not visited as often as he had originally said he would – and certainly not as often as he should.
‘How is Dad?’ Bob asked eventually, after another coughing fit.
‘He’s doing very well,’ came the reply, although judging by the tone, not as well as Mum had hoped. ‘He still finds walking difficult, and of course he can’t get up from his chair, poor dear.’
Bob heard another voice call out from in the room. ‘What was that?’
‘That was your father interrupting, dear. He said whatever you do, don’t grow old …’
‘It’s rubbish!’ Dad’s voice piped up from the far side of the living room.
‘Tell him he’s doing OK,’ Bob said, ‘And I’ll consider myself lucky if I get anywhere near his age.’
He listened to his mother recounting this and heard a muffled reply from his father. Bob squeezed his eyes shut and felt his throat stiffening. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to see his parents again. ‘And tell him I’ll be there for his birthday,’ he added thickly. ‘In fact, as soon as I’m feeling better, I’ll come and visit.’
There was a definite lift in his mother’s voice now. ‘Perhaps you could stay over, even if it’s just for one night. That would be lovely.’
‘Yeah, I’d like that. I’ll come for a weekend.’
‘That’s lovely. Tell me when you’re coming and I’ll make sure I’ve got plenty in. Your father doesn’t eat much these days – he’s only having chicken soup for his dinner now – and I’ve got to be careful, so I’ll buy in specially.’
‘Great.’
‘And get better soon. You sound awful.’
‘OK, Mum. Thanks.’
‘I’ll call you again tomorrow. Take care, love.’
‘Yeah. Love you. Bye.’
Bob switched the phone off and sank back into the cushions. He coughed up a mouthful of thick, stinking phlegm and spat it into a tissue. The urge to vomit was becoming increasing difficult to ignore.
He switched the TV back on to distract him. There was a programme about estate agents on one channel, and on another it was beeswax. He flicked to another channel and this time picked up a news bulletin.
The so-called flu epidemic had indeed made the news. Certainly there was a mention of it midway through the second round-up, as reports came in from across the UK of a sharp increase in respiratory complaints. Bob sat up at this point and listened properly.
‘… and a spokesperson for the Ministry of Health said it was too early to say whether or not this represented a serious flu epidemic.’
The picture switched to a junior health minister – Bob didn’t bother looking at the name which scrolled along the bottom of the screen – standing in front of the Houses of Parliament saying, ‘We don’t want to overreact to this, obviously. The National Health Service has every provision in place to not only recognise a serious epidemic, but to cope with it as well. So far we have not had to reach that stage, and I don’t think we will.’
The picture changed back to a shot of a doctor’s surgery somewhere. ‘Nevertheless, many GPs are concerned at the sudden increase in respiratory problems, which, they said, cannot entirely be blamed on seasonal variations.’
Cut to a GP in his surgery, an older guy, wearing heavy glasses. The caption said Dr Graham Walker. ‘I’ve seen nearly four to five times as many patients in the last week with what I would term serious respiratory conditions. It isn’t normal, and we should be on our guard. The problem is that Westminster is ignoring this simply because the epidemic is in Wales and not London.’
‘Some commentators feel that the concerns of GPs are being overlooked, and this may be putting the public’s health at risk,’ the reporter continued. ‘The Government has been quick to point out, however, that there is a widespread vaccination programme available for free for anyone over sixty-five to protect against flu. This is also true for vulnerable people below that age, such as those with chronic heart disease, diabetes, kidney disease or asthma sufferers. This is David Coulton, reporting for BBC News 24.’
Bob muted the TV and coughed into his tissue again. A part of him felt just a little bit better knowing that he was not the only person suffering, but he did wonder what, if anything, the Government would do. Perhaps nothing until his blood sample had been checked.
THIRTEEN
Gwen eventually found Owen standing at the rail at Mermaid Quay. It was chilly so close to the water, and she had to pull her denim jacket tighter to ward off the hard south-easterly blowing in towards Cardiff. Owen was still in a T-shirt, looking out across the bay.
‘Hey,’ Gwen said as she joined him at the rail.
‘Don’t bother,’ muttered Owen, without taking his eyes off the horizon.
‘Don’t bother what?’
‘Don’t bother trying to sweet-talk me back into the Hub. I need a break.’
‘We’re all pretty tired,’ Gwen remarked evenly. ‘Jack says he needs you though.’
That provoked a harsh laugh. ‘Sent you up after me, did he? Thought you could work your womanly wiles and get me to come running back? So I can go back in and say sorry I messed up, Jack. Again. Please let me prove myself to you by solving the problem in five minutes flat.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Gwen. ‘It’s not like that and you know it. Jack wanted to come after you himself.’
‘That would’ve been even worse.’
‘I said I’d come because I knew how you’d be feeling.’
He looked at her for the first time. ‘Bet you don’t.’
‘Yeah, I do. You’re feeling pretty stupid and ashamed for reacting like that. Not only did you mess up and overreact, you shot our only chance of finding out what this is all about.’
‘It wasn’t human.’
‘Maybe not – but it was humanoid.’
‘Doesn’t mean it didn’t need shooting. I can think of quite a few humanoids and humans I know who could do with shooting.’
‘Says Dr Owen Harper.’
A slight smirk. ‘You really want to know why I pulled the trigger?’
She shrugged. ‘I think you just freaked because it looked like a tiny little person. A baby.’
‘No. It wasn’t me who freaked. I pulled the trigger ’cos I knew you lot wouldn’t.’ Owen turned around so his back was to the bay, folded his arms and leant against the rail. ‘Jack always holds back – he likes to give the benefit of the doubt and you wouldn’t shoot because … well, because it looked like an infant.’
Gwen flinched. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It was small, newborn, looked a bit helpless,’ Owen said matter-of-factly. ‘Classic infant survival technique. The maternal instinct in you wouldn’t allow you to shoot.’
‘Is that so wrong?’
Now Owen turned to look at her, staring straight into her eyes. ‘That wasn’t a baby, Gwen. It didn’t even look like a baby.’
‘OK. So what was it?’
‘I dunno, yet.’
‘So why’d you shoot it?’
Gwen took a deep breath, pulling her hair away from her face as the bay wind flapped it around her head. ‘Well, it’s dead now. So you can come back, take a proper look. Maybe come up with something a bit more useful than “unnatural”. That’s what we deal with every day, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. But this was … something else. I can’t explain it. It was just instinct.’
‘Well, now your instincts should tell you that we need to find out what it was, and try to explain it.’ She touched him on the arm. ‘What’s done is done, Owen. You shot it. It’s dead. Let’s move on.’
‘May as well,’ Owen grunted. He hunched up his shoulders. ‘Besides, it’s freezing out here.’
Toshiko, wearing surgical gloves, placed what remained of the creature on a tray. The bullet had blown it into fragments, but, picking up what looked like pieces of hardened mucus she’d found on the floor of the Autopsy Room, she had been able to complete part of the jigsaw. She had a surgical mask over her nose and mouth to keep out the stench. Ianto had already complained that it had filled the room with a smell like a compost heap.
‘What are you going to do?’ Jack asked as he watched Toshiko work, his face stony with distaste as the putrid smell reached his nose. ‘Sew the pieces back together and run a couple of thousand volts through it?’
Toshiko gave him a cool look and then returned to her examination.
The creature would have been about eighteen inches high when stretched out. It was humanoid, with a tough, fibrous green skin. The head had been completely disintegrated by Owen’s shot, so there was no way of seeing that properly again, but there had been scraps of the weed-like substance left. Toshiko put them on slides and checked them out under a microscope along with strips of flesh.
‘This is quite extraordinary,’ she said, looking up over the top of her glasses at Jack. ‘I’ve made a chemical analysis of the flesh. It’s actually a hardened slime made up from various inorganic salts, desquamated cells and leucocytes. In other words, it appears to be made primarily from mucus.’
‘S’not very nice.’
‘There are traces of vegetable matter here, too, though,’ Toshiko reported thoughtfully. ‘Actually part of the flesh.’
‘You mean it could be a vegetable life form?’ Jack didn’t seem amazed by this. It was a genuine query. Sometimes the depth of his knowledge about alien life still took Toshiko by surprise.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m not sure. It’s neither plant nor animal nor wholly mucoid; just a bit of everything. It would explain the smell, though – bacteria at work in rotting vegetation.’
Jack was staring at the remains with a deep frown on his otherwise smooth features, and Toshiko noticed when she looked up. ‘It’s kind of familiar,’ he said quietly, in response to her quizzical look.
‘The smell?’
‘No. The look of it. Reminds me of something …’ Jack still seemed to be turning it over in his mind, as if he was sorting through a hundred thousand different experiences, searching for a tiny scrap of useful information. He approached the examination tray and reached out towards the remains, but he made sure he didn’t touch it. His lips parted slightly, and then he said, ‘Homunculus.’
‘Latin, meaning literally, “little man” or “manikin”,’ said Toshiko, nodding. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘There’s something about it,’ mused Jack, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Something at the back of my mind. That word – homunculus – I dunno why, but it just fits. I know it does.’
‘Something you remember?’
‘Wish I could.’
‘Relax. It’ll come to you.’ Toshiko smiled at him. ‘You need a rest.’
Jack ran a hand through his hair and said, ‘What I need is more coffee. Ianto!’
‘A man’s work is never done in Torchwood,’ said Ianto, peeling off his rubber gloves. ‘If you want coffee on demand, you’ll have to stop mucking the place up first.’
‘Get to it before I put you over my knee.’ Jack grinned at him and turned back to Toshiko. ‘Tosh, what was this thing doing inside that corpse? How’d it get in there?’
‘I think our original idea was close to the truth,’ she replied. ‘It had been growing in there. I don’t think it had reached full maturity, but it was clearly ready to emerge – I’m wondering if it may have been responsible for keeping the corpse in a state of suspended animation for the last forty years in the marsh.’
‘And that’s why it suddenly woke up?’
‘Well, there’s still plenty of chronon discharge registering, but it’s still a more likely explanation than some kind of fallout from the Rift.’
‘OK, I’ll buy that. Still don’t know what it is, though.’
‘Homunculus?’
Jack shrugged. ‘I’m working on it.’
There was a clatter of footsteps on the flooring, and they looked up to see Owen approaching. He was trying to conceal his sheepishness behind an arrogant façade, and almost – but not quite – failing.
‘I know, I know,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘Don’t all rush to hug me, you’ll only embarrass me.’
‘Hug you?’ queried Jack. ‘Hey, even I have standards.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’ Owen raised both eyebrows in a look of pure innocence that almost – but not quite – succeeded. ‘Anyway, back now, sulk over. What’s next?’
‘Tosh has been examining what’s left of the …’
‘The …?’
‘The whatever-it-is.’
‘Ugly-looking thing, isn’t it?’ said Owen. ‘The whatever-itis ain’t much better either.’ He flashed a grin at Toshiko and winked. ‘You know I’m only joking.’
‘I think it’s some kind of infant,’ Toshiko said shortly.
‘I’ve already had this conversation. That’s no baby, Tosh.’ He leant over her to examine the readings on the monitor and raised his eyebrows. ‘For one thing it’s made out of snot, according to this.’
‘And by infant I mean it may not be fully grown.’ Toshiko indicated the series of computer analysis screens by her workstation. ‘Look at these molecular spectroscopy readings. The concentration levels are incredible. It’s like there’s so much energy contained within each cell, just waiting for a release.’
‘Any chance of that happening now?’ asked Jack warily.
‘No. It’s dead, not dormant.’
‘Good job I shot it, then,’ said Owen.
Jack paced around the workstation thoughtfully. ‘So we have a dead body acting as an incubator for this thing, lying at the bottom of a peat bog for over forty years until Tosh found it.’
‘Lucky old me,’ said Toshiko.
Gwen approached the huddle with a sheaf of paperwork in her hand. ‘I’ve done some research on water hags,’ she announced. ‘I did try phoning Professor Len, but he’s not picking up.’
Toshiko smiled. ‘Pity. I liked him.’
‘Well, he did save your life.’
‘That always does it for me.’
Owen looked up. ‘So you typed “water hag” into Google and pressed enter. I don’t know … With all your police training and dedication to duty I’d have expected more. Whatever happened to the plod’s meticulous fact-finding and slow-but-sure attitude? I think you could have gone that extra mile and tried Wikipedia.’
‘You’re so funny, Owen,’ Gwen said without a trace of a smile. She held up the hard copy for Jack and Toshiko to see. ‘Thought I’d print it off rather than send it across.’
‘Surprised you didn’t write it all down in your little notebook,’ muttered Owen.
Gwen ignored him. ‘Water hags are basically lumps of marsh weed that look vaguely like an old woman lurking underwater,’ she said. ‘That’s the fact side of things, anyway. They were commonly sighted in medieval times in areas of marshland all over the country, but they sort of went out of super
stition fashion a long time ago. There are some references in literature and folklore down through the ages, though, and famously there was a giant water hag in Beowulf. She was Grendel’s mother, and she used to live under a black lake and drag people down to their deaths with hooked talons.’
‘I think I went out with her once,’ said Owen.
‘Which is probably why Beowulf killed her with his magic sword,’ Gwen said. ‘Put the poor woman out of her misery.’
‘Ho, ho, ho.’
‘There was another well-known water hag in Cheshire called Jenny Greenteeth,’ Gwen continued. ‘She used to lurk in ditches and drag unwary travellers down to her underwater den.’
‘Jenny Greenteeth?’ repeated Owen. ‘Yep, definitely went out with her.’
‘Professor Len said that some of these water spirits could disguise themselves as normal women,’ Toshiko said.
‘There you are then.’
‘The point is,’ said Gwen, ‘it’s all the same kind of location and the same modus operandi.’
‘So Professor Len was right after all,’ said Toshiko.
‘You reckon our dead friend back there was an unwary traveller?’ wondered Jack, jabbing a thumb towards the Autopsy Room. ‘Walking across the Greendown Moss one night forty years back, and dragged down by one of these old witches?’
‘Sally Blackteeth, to be precise,’ said Toshiko. ‘That’s the name of the water hag Professor Len told us about.’
‘And there’s something else which may be relevant,’ said Gwen. ‘These witches or water hags couldn’t have children. They dragged men down into the swamp but it never worked out. So they used to make their own children out of dried snot and mud.’
‘The homunculus,’ said Toshiko quietly.
There was silence for a moment before Owen said, ‘But if these water hag things went off the superstition radar like you say, what’s brought them back again now?’
Something in the Water Page 9