Something in the Water

by Trevor Baxendale

  ‘It takes a genius to make a disguise this effective.’

  Toshiko laughed, and it turned into another cough. She grimaced as the fit passed, rubbing at her neck. ‘I’ve got a sore throat too. Is there anything in the medical stores I could take, Ianto?’

  ‘Basic analgesics is all you’re allowed, I’m afraid. There are some alien remedies in the safe, I believe, but they are all strictly out of bounds. Besides which, you are only human. Painkillers designed for Arcateenians, for instance, might not work on you – in fact, quite the reverse: they could be deadly.’

  Toshiko shrugged and turned back to her work with a sniff. ‘Just my luck.’

  ‘I’ve checked the TV news,’ Ianto told her. ‘You may like to know that you’re not the only one feeling a bit poorly. There’s been a surge of respiratory problems right across South Wales and parts of South West England. They say it’s the start of a flu epidemic.’

  ‘It would explain why I feel so lousy.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about it. You’re probably just run down, and your experience at Greendown Moss won’t have helped.’

  Toshiko coughed and groaned again. ‘Don’t remind me. I don’t think I’ll ever get the mud out of my hair. But you’re probably right. Thanks for the coffee, anyway.’

  Ianto deftly removed the cup as soon as she put it down, being very careful not to touch the rim as he did so.

  EIGHTEEN

  Bob Strong was slowly coming to the conclusion that he was dying. He thought he should call his mother, but he was almost too weak to move.

  He was coughing up more blood – thick, dark clots of it mixed with a pungent mucus that made him retch and gag with the effort. He was on his hands and knees, shaking like a frightened dog, spitting out more strings of red slime onto the living room floor, when the doorbell rang.

  It was such a stupidly ordinary sound that he almost laughed. Ding dong! Then he was coughing again, and, by the time the convulsions had gone and he was wiping his trembling lips with the remains of a ragged, disintegrating paper towel, he knew there was no way he could get to the door to answer it, let alone care who it was.

  The bell sounded again. For a full minute he lay on the cold laminate floor, surrounded by gobbets of blood-streaked phlegm and old tissues, utterly exhausted. When the doorbell sounded for the third and fourth time, each a little more urgently, a part of his semi-conscious brain began to concentrate, analysing the situation, in an almost dreamlike state.

  Maybe it was Owen Harper, the man from the Government.

  It could be him at the door. With the cure, or some kind of vaccine. Or a team of paramedics in decontamination suits, ready to whisk him into biohazard quarantine. Bob guessed there were procedures, protocols for this sort of thing.

  Somehow he dredged up the energy to crawl towards the front door. In the hallway, he had to wait for a minute for another coughing fit to pass, and then, with a mighty effort, pull himself upright using the doorframe as support. Finally, he was on his feet, feeling sick and dizzy, the world spinning around him and an ache in his chest and throat that threatened to stop him breathing. Only then did he think that if it was the authorities, intent on either rescue or internment, they would have probably broken the door down by now and come in for him.

  He focused on the front door. There was a shape on the other side of the frosted glass – female.

  It took a couple of attempts to open the door because his fingers were half-numb and slippery with perspiration. He couldn’t get a good grip on the latch. Eventually he managed to unlock it and the door opened to reveal a young, rather striking blonde in a raincoat. She had strange, haunting green eyes that, even in his current state of mind, he recognised immediately.

  ‘Saskia?’

  ‘Hello, Dr Strong.’

  Not ‘Good God, you look awful, what’s the matter?’ Just ‘Hello.’ It was so utterly normal and unexpected that Bob felt an immediate, fantastic surge of hope and warmth. Maybe things were not quite as bad as he thought, if she didn’t reel back in alarm and disgust at the first sight of him. Maybe he felt worse than he looked. But then he remembered who he was dealing with.

  ‘Saskia,’ he said roughly, his throat still clogged with snot. Realising this guttural noise could hardly be understood, he swallowed with difficulty and began again. ‘Saskia … Y’know, now isn’t a good time.’

  ‘Is there anything wrong? You don’t look very well, Dr Strong.’ Was that a smile on those perfect lips? Surely that was concern in her eyes, not mockery?

  Strong went to speak, coughed up another string of mucus, and backed away. Immediately Saskia Harden stepped in after him, reaching out to help keep him upright.

  She took him into the living room, surveying the mess without comment. She let him sit down in the armchair. ‘Rest there a moment.’

  He raised a hand to protest. ‘What are you doing here?’ He coughed painfully and tried once again to focus on her.

  ‘Do you know what’s wrong with you?’ Saskia asked him gently.

  He shook his head and shivered. ‘Dunno. I think it’s something to do with what’s been on TV. I think I should go to hospital, but …’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘Well, I’ve already got people working on it,’ he told her. ‘They’ve done some blood tests. They’re looking in to it.’

  ‘But do you know what it is?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He gagged, once, and then spoke in a rush, the words tumbling from his lips in a hurry because he knew he was going to throw up soon. ‘They’re saying it’s flu but it isn’t. I think it’s some kind of virus. I mean, virus as in “biohazard”. Like a biological weapon – I know it sounds crazy, but I’m convinced. I’ve seen the reports on the TV … it’s spreading across the whole area, and they keep telling everyone it’s nothing to worry about, it’s just a minor flu epidemic or a bug, but I can tell they’re keeping something back. You probably think I’m nuts—’ (She shook her head, not at all) ‘—but it feels like there’s a wasps’ nest in my throat and I can’t stop coughing. I want to cough it all up, but it just won’t budge. For God’s sake, I’m bringing up blood.’ He coughed, winced and then said, ‘I’m supposed to be a doctor. I can’t panic about this. I mustn’t.’

  He wiped a hand down his face, surprised at the roughness on his chin. He realised that he must look like a complete tramp; Saskia’s cool green gaze was still checking him over carefully, perhaps trying to recognise the same man she’d seen in surgery the previous day. ‘Look,’ he said, summoning a feeble smile from somewhere, ‘I did warn you – this isn’t a good time for me. Maybe I’m just paranoid or this thing is doing something to my mind, but … Really, what are you doing here?’

  She looked at him with a steady, level gaze. ‘I’ve come for my baby, Dr Strong.’

  The SUV was speeding back towards Roald Dahl Plass, Owen following in his Honda.

  Inside the Torchwood vehicle, the glare of the street lights cast strobing orange shapes across the faces of Gwen and Jack.

  ‘That man,’ Gwen said, staring at the road ahead. ‘I looked at him properly. And so did you.’

  Jack glanced at her but said nothing.

  ‘I saw the way you looked at him.’ Gwen turned her head and stared at his profile as he drove. ‘The way he’d been killed … cut right open like that. Could you survive something like that, Jack?’

  ‘You know I would.’

  ‘I know you can’t die. But a wound like that … how would you? How could you? Surely it wouldn’t just … heal?

  ‘It’d take a while, but it would heal. I’d live.’

  Gwen shivered. ‘I can’t imagine that.’

  ‘Try not to think about it,’ Jack advised. ‘That’s what I do.’

  She looked back at him. ‘But … you must think about it. You must do.’

  ‘Not any more. I don’t think about dying. Only living.’ He glanced across at her and smiled that wolfish grin. ‘Besides, I don’t plan on letting any
one rip me open like that. Believe me. That’s gotta smart.’

  She smiled despite herself. ‘Why do you always do that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make me feel daft for even thinking something so bad, even when we’re right in the middle of a crisis.’

  ‘Crisis? What crisis?’

  ‘Owen’s medical crisis.’ Gwen activated the computer console in front of her and went online, searching for a news update. It wasn’t hard to find coverage of what the strap line termed ‘South Wales Epidemic’.

  Owen’s voice crackled over the comms. ‘How come it’s my medical crisis?’

  ‘The TV and internet are full of it,’ Gwen reported, tapping at the monitor screen in front of her. ‘And they’re still calling it a flu epidemic.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ said Owen’s voice over the loudspeakers.

  ‘That a medical term?’ asked Jack.

  ‘It is when I use it.’ The Honda pulled up alongside the SUV as the two cars hurtled along the carriageway. Gwen could see Owen at the wheel. ‘Look, it won’t be long before someone starts calling it an outbreak,’ he continued. ‘That’s different to an epidemic, by the way. The authorities will already be considering it an emergency, the way things are going.’

  ‘They’ll think it’s germ warfare or something,’ Gwen said. ‘Terrorism.’

  ‘They’ll check with all the relevant biohazard facilities first – research labs, storage bases, chemical plants, both commercial and government. That won’t tell them much. Even if one of them knew there’d been a leak, they wouldn’t fess up straight away.’

  ‘What are the chances of it being an accidental leak?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Slim, but not impossible.’ Owen’s voice crackled slightly as the Honda pulled ahead and moved in front.

  ‘What if it’s none of those things?’ asked Gwen. ‘I mean, not an accidental leak from a research lab or even a deliberate attempt at biological terrorism? What if it’s something else?’

  ‘Then they’ll call us,’ said Jack.

  ‘Baby?’ said Bob. He suddenly felt a lot worse, if that was possible, as he sensed everything suddenly sliding out of control. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Saskia just smiled. It was the coldest thing Bob had ever seen. ‘You will.’

  ‘Saskia, this really isn’t the right time …’ Bob tried to glare at her, but he couldn’t focus properly. He wondered if he was simply hallucinating the whole thing. She looked strangely ephemeral, as if he was seeing her through water.

  She pulled off her raincoat, exposing one bare arm for Bob to see.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ he said, puzzled. The reaction was instinctive. There was a wound – a deep tear in the flesh of her upper arm, crusted with blood. The skin around it was inflamed and swollen. It looked extraordinarily painful, and yet she barely seemed to register it. All this time, and she had not given the slightest indication that it hurt. ‘How did you do that?’ he wondered. He stared at it, unable to take his eyes off the damage, his professional interest suddenly overwhelming every other thought. ‘Is that a gunshot wound?’

  This time her lips parted in a tiny snarl. ‘Something metal,’ she said. Even the word seemed to taste bad for her.

  Bob sat up, peering more closely at the wound. It was still bleeding, slightly, but there was something else in there, possibly detritus that would need to be cleaned away.

  ‘You should go to hospital,’ he told her. ‘The best place for this kind of thing is A&E, honestly.’

  As he spoke, he saw something move in the wound. It was dark green, like a fragment of cabbage or broccoli caught in the scab. It quickly withdrew inside the flesh as he looked, almost as if it sensed his observation.

  ‘This is too much,’ Bob stammered, looking away. ‘I’m seeing things now.’

  ‘Really?’

  There was something in her tone – a challenge? A hint of contempt?

  Whatever it was, it made Bob look back up at her, into her eyes. And then, in the final moments of his life, Bob suddenly realised what colour Saskia Harden’s eyes were.

  They were the colour of mucus.

  NINETEEN

  Jack strode through the giant cog-wheel portal of the Hub and headed straight for the steps on the left leading up to Toshiko’s workstation. He was taking the stairs three at a time when he realised that she wasn’t at her desk.

  ‘Where’s Tosh?’ Jack called to Ianto, who was just coming through from the Morgue.

  Ianto was holding a dustpan and brush. He used the brush to point. ‘Hothouse. Good to see you back.’

  ‘You too, Ianto, you too. Lookin’ sharp. I like a man who knows how to keep a place tidy – I ever tell you that?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  Jack doubled back, heading for the spiral steps that led up to the Hothouse. He could see Toshiko now, standing over a complex piece of apparatus in the centre of the room. She was wearing a white lab coat, which stood out among all the plants and bottles. Jack was about to go inside when he realised that the doors were shut, and when he tried to open them he found they were locked.

  ‘Tosh?’

  No answer. She was intent on her work and she couldn’t hear him through the partition.

  Ianto followed Jack up the stairway and cleared his throat apologetically. ‘She’s sealed herself inside.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  Ianto knocked politely on the glass and Toshiko looked up, startled.

  Jack felt startled too. Toshiko looked terrible. She was drawn, with dark rings under her eyes and a sheen of sweat over colourless skin. Jack looked back at Ianto. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘She’s running a temperature and she’s as weak as a kitten. Then she started coughing up blood.’

  Inside the Hothouse, Toshiko pressed a switch to activate the intercom. ‘I’ve put myself in quarantine, Jack.’

  ‘Quarantine?’

  ‘It’s just a precaution. I think I’ve picked up some kind of infection.’ She coughed hard into a handkerchief, holding on to the workbench next to her for support. ‘I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m trying to isolate it now. I think it could be what’s been on the TV news.’

  ‘There must be something we can do. I’ll get Owen, he can help.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Owen, joining them outside the Hothouse with Gwen. He cleared his throat and winced. ‘I think I’ve got it too.’

  Jack looked at him. ‘Owen, you’ve got a cold.’

  ‘Man flu,’ said Gwen. ‘You guys – slightest sign of a sore throat and you hit the deck. Rhys is just the same. Pathetic.’

  Jack ignored her and turned back to Toshiko, thumbing the intercom switch next to the door. ‘What you found, Tosh?’

  ‘Well it’s not flu, I can tell you that.’ Another cough, her face screwing up and a hand going to her throat. ‘I’ve taken blood and saliva samples, I’m testing them now.’

  ‘Owen did all this before, on Saskia Harden’s GP. His tests were all clear.’

  ‘I was checking for known diseases,’ Owen admitted. He raised a hand to attract Toshiko’s attention. ‘Are you checking for anything in particular?’

  ‘I’m eliminating any known biological or bacteriological weapons. Sarin, Anthrax, E74. I’ve even checked for any radioactive isotopes, in case it’s plutonium poisoning – the symptoms aren’t dissimilar.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘So far it’s all clear.’

  ‘Which means?’ asked Jack.

  Owen said, ‘Which means that if it is a bioweapon, it isn’t one from Earth.’

  ‘Meeting, downstairs,’ Jack told the others, and they moved away towards the stairwell. Jack smiled through the glass at Toshiko. ‘Carry on. I’ll connect up to you from the Boardroom.’

  She nodded wearily and gave him the thumbs up.

  Gwen already had BBC News 24 feeding through to the main screen on the Boardroom wall. They were in the middle of a story about the polar ice-caps melting, but the rolling stop-
press news at the bottom of the picture referred to the flu epidemic in Wales and southern England. Gwen was reading it out aloud as the others filed in behind her: ‘Government scientists have been placed on alert following the outbreak of a previously unknown strain of the flu virus in South Wales and South East England—’

  ‘Government scientists?’ said Owen scornfully, sliding into a chair.

  ‘—A spokesperson has denied that the outbreak indicates that bird flu may have made the transition to human beings, although it has yet to be confirmed whether or not this is the deadly H5N1 strain of the virus … Blah blah blah,’ Gwen trailed off.

  ‘They’re fudging,’ agreed Owen. ‘They know it’s something serious, so they’ve let slip the bird flu thing. It’s a cover for the fact that they haven’t a clue.’

  ‘And we do?’ said Jack.

  ‘We know it’s something to do with Saskia Harden.’

  ‘Do we?’

  Owen leaned forward, wincing for a moment as he cleared his throat. ‘It’s my guess Saskia’s the original carrier – Patient Zero. She went to her GP, passed it to him. That’s two infected people. Now a contagious pathogen in the middle of a doctor’s waiting room, full of people who are already sick or rundown, is the perfect breeding ground. Little or no resistance. Everyone there is infected. They go away, infect other people. And so it goes on.’

  ‘My God, it’ll never stop,’ whispered Gwen.

  ‘Do you think it’s deliberate?’ Jack asked. ‘Or just an accident?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Owen said. ‘Either way we’re up the proverbial creek. Remember what happened when the Rift was opened – an entire hospital was brought to its knees trying to deal with fourteenth-century patients with bubonic plague. Something like this could cause the emergency services to go into meltdown.’

  ‘It’s deliberate,’ Ianto said firmly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Think about it. The whole thing boils down to this Saskia woman. Before this week we’d never heard of her – but neither had anyone else, except for the police and her GP. And the records they hold for her are all false. She doesn’t really exist.’