Into the Silence t-10

by Sarah Pinborough

  Putting the coffee cup down, Ianto touched the Bluetooth device attached to his ear. 'Break's over. I'm back in location.'

  'Good. We're in place.' Jack's voice was clear in his head. 'Hope Cardiff's finest male voice choir are ready to make some more beautiful music together.'

  'Ha, bloody ha.' Ianto ended the connection and waited for Drew, suddenly feeling very alone in the sanctity of the church, even though Jack and Gwen were in the SUV, only fifty metres away at the most, hidden up a side street away from the glare of overhead lighting. They were parked on a double yellow, but Cutler had wryly commented that parking tickets were one thing he could take care of.

  At least there hadn't been any fresh killings, which was a good thing. It was always possible, if not likely, that the alien had been taken back through the Rift and was long gone. It seemed more probable, however, that there had been a lot less rehearsing going on in the city after the death of Maria Bruno. Many of the competitors had simply packed their bags and quit. Five of their number had been murdered, and their logic seemed to be that if the killer could get to someone as famous as Maria Bruno, then no one was safe. Those with weaker stomachs and lesser talents had vanished, and those who were determined to stick it out and see the competition through were reluctant to give the songs full voice. Yet still Ianto and Drew belting their numbers out all day wasn't bringing the alien to them.

  They had picked St Jude's because it was secluded and as close to the epicentre of the deaths as they could find. Cutler had used his team to call every hired space in Cardiff to find out when they were booked out and when they were empty. Ianto and Drew had been rehearsing all day, and would keep on into the night if they had to. Police cars were stationed throughout the city during peak rehearsal times, each with instructions to contact Cutler immediately should they see anything unusual or suspicious. But Ianto reckoned that, given that the city was pretty much in mourning, he and Drew were the only ones singing with any vigour in its streets.

  Drew's voice carried out from the small room to the left of the altar, rising up and down the notes of the octaves, and Ianto jumped slightly, before smiling at his own nerves and then sipping more foul coffee, which probably wasn't helping the general undertone of tension that filled his veins. So he wasn't alone after all. Still, he'd give himself a couple more minutes before letting the other man know he was back.

  Unusual or suspicious. Or perhaps a shape-changing alien that likes to rip people open and demolecularise their vocal cords. That would be more precise.

  If it had been up to Jack or Cutler, the competition would have been cancelled completely, but that idea had been squashed from on high. The competition was good for Wales. It was a celebration of everything that was finest about the small nation. It was good for tourism. And, of course, this year it was being televised. Whoever it was that had been on the phone to Jack had definitely laboured that point. Ianto had heard every word, and he'd been standing several metres away. The competition finals were to go ahead. And it was up to Torchwood to make sure they did so smoothly and safely. Ianto could understand their concerns. Seeing a person ripped apart on stage during a live television show probably wouldn't go down well with the viewing public. Especially before the watershed.

  And so here he was, hoping they could lure the alien. It was a one in a thousand shot, and so far there wasn't a glimmer of a spike in Rift activity. Ianto now had almost as little faith in the plan as he had faith in his own ability to sing.

  Taking his damp jacket off, he dropped it onto one of the pews at the front and then put his coffee on top of the grand piano over to the right. Inside his trouser pocket the circular portable prison device felt heavy and awkward against his leg and served to remind him of exactly what he and Drew were really doing here.

  It might not have been the kind of field work he'd hoped for, but it was still dangerous. Both he and Drew were taking risks with their lives, and as much as Ianto had got used to that concept during his years in Torchwood, it still came as a shock when the risks were for real. For Drew Powell, who was just an office-bound insurance broker, it must be frightening, especially on top of his loss.

  'Drew?' Ianto called, feeling slightly bad about the irritation he felt. 'I'm out here.'

  He shoved the final pieces of chocolate bar into his mouth and was washing it down with coffee when the chubby man bustled in from the antechamber.

  He stared at Ianto, before one finger rose and pointed with venom towards the plastic coffee cup. 'I sincerely hope that is a black coffee.'

  'It's a latte. Sorry, I should have brought you one. Didn't think.' Ianto held the cup forward. 'You can have some of mine if you like. Although I warn you, it's not the best. Didn't you go out and grab anything?'

  Drew ignored the question, his chin wobbling as he glared. 'You're drinking a milky coffee before singing?' His eyes widened as they caught the crumpled chocolate bar wrapper unfurling on the piano top. ' And eating chocolate?' His voice squeaked out from some reedy place at the top of his range, and Ianto's irritation flushed back into his cheeks.

  'Is that a problem? I was hungry.' I've been bloody working all day, he wanted to add, but he bit the words back in a gulp.

  Drew snatched at the wrapper and the cup, flamboyantly tossing them into the waste-paper basket tucked behind the piano, leaving a trail of creamy coffee splattered up the back wall that was not going to impress the vicar.

  'Of course it's a problem,' he snapped, fingers fluttering through the empty air between them. 'You said you were a singer. Any singer worth his salt knows no red wine, chocolate or coffee before singing. It's death to the vocal cords.'

  Half-listening, already resigned to disappointing his partner, Ianto thought Powell was lucky he wasn't aware of the irony of his words. They hadn't shared with him the nature of the mutilation his boyfriend had suffered. There was only so much that Drew Powell needed to know, and that information was limited to knowing that they were trying to trap a serial killer.

  'I'm sorry,' he muttered, feeling sorry for a lot of things, drinking coffee not amongst them.

  Drew's hands gripped his comfortable hips and he shook his head. 'No wonder you're having problems getting a decent note out. Still, never mind. I'll have to work with what I've been given. Although what Ben would have made of it, I dread to think.' Hovering his finger over the play button on the portable stereo, Drew raised an eyebrow. 'Now, what do we have to remember?'

  Ianto gritted his teeth against the patronising 'we' and took a deep breath. 'Not to breathe with my shoulders and to tuck my diaphragm in.'

  'Bravissimo.'

  As the first strains of music started, Ianto wondered whether his love for the duet from The Pearl Fishers was lost for ever. It was beginning to feel like it might be.

  The approaching dusk crept slowly across Cardiff, evening greedily consuming any light in the damp cool air and replacing it with an infectious grey gloom.

  The streets were hushed, and even the traffic was moving with more caution, as if fearful that the mysterious killer that plagued the streets would follow the thrum of the engines and claim their drivers' lives and insides when they reached their destinations. Pedestrians peered cautiously over their shoulders and shivered at the headlines written boldly on A-boards, all declaring No leads in hunt for Serial Slasher! City in terror! and found they huddled closer together as they scurried home.

  Strange things often happened in Cardiff, and on a subconscious level its residents were toughened against them, but this was different. In the rain and the mist that poured in across the water, as if even the Bay itself could feel the anxiety that pulsed through the city's inhabitants, the fear that ate at the heart of the Welsh nation was like that which had haunted Whitechapel over a hundred years before. Ripper. Slasher. The words were too similar for most people's liking, and as more vivid details of the gruesome nature of the murders emerged, splattered across the pages of the papers, more residents hurried home to turn their lights on, lock t
he doors, and take comfort in each other's heat on their sofas.

  In the pubs and bars, people watched each other carefully. Who could you trust? Really? Eyes were furtive, glancing up, down and around. Danger could lurk in any direction. There were whispers of heavy feet on roofs, strange figures seen loitering in dark places, there and then not there. Wild stories bred by feverish imaginations.

  Cars headed out, away from the bright lights of the Bay, many visitors cutting short their trips, declaring to disappointed hoteliers and bed and breakfast owners that 'the weather was too unpleasant', but the delicate tremble in the hands that signed bills and receipts hinted at the truth. Until the police could catch this killer, then someone had to be next. And no one wanted it to be them. But they all waited in anticipation of the next set of grisly details. There was nothing like a murder to make you feel alive, after all.

  SEVENTEEN

  Adrienne Scott chucked her robe and wig onto her desk next to all the case files that were screaming for her attention, and shut the door to her office in chambers behind her. Her head was thumping, and all she wanted to do was go and drink a large glass of white wine. It had been one of those days, and tomorrow she had to visit with Ryan before going straight into court so that one wasn't going to be any better. She avoided contemplating the tragedy that a bottle of wine seemed like the only occasional respite from her life.

  Leaving her overcoat undone, she let the light drizzle land on her face and clothes. It was refreshing and let her brain breathe. It might even help shift this headache before painkillers were needed. She glanced at her watch. Quarter to five. It was almost a respectable time for the first drink of the evening, and she'd at least arranged to meet a friend so that she could kid herself the wine was part of a social occasion rather than the social occasion being there to support the wine.

  Her heels tapped across the small square as she stretched out the no-nonsense stride that had, many times over, warned any potential suitors away before they'd even approached her to speak. I can cope, her walk said. I don't need you to complicate my life. It's complicated enough. Now sod off, before we start to like each other.

  Over on a corner, a choir of eight or ten bedraggled men and women were singing into the night air. Don't let fear kill Cardiff's music! proclaimed the banner they were holding over their heads, but they didn't seem to be singing with too much enthusiasm, apart from one woman at the front who was belting it out, a beatific smile plastered across her wet face. Her sharp barrister's eyes giving the singers a quick onceover, Adrienne decided it was probably this woman who was responsible for dragging the rest of them out into the cold streets. She had the look of a bossy cow.

  There was no collection box at their feet, and Adrienne didn't smile as she passed. Music was one thing she could do without. Ryan had destroyed any enjoyment she'd ever got from singing. Glaring at the billboard posters still carrying the smiling face of the murdered opera singer, Adrienne thought she couldn't wait for the bloody competition to be over.

  But, before that, she couldn't wait for that first glass of deliciously numbing Chardonnay.

  Ianto's face was flushed as they reached the end of the piece. As much as he hated admitting it, Drew's advice was improving his voice. He was sounding almost half-decent now.

  Drew clapped his hands together. 'Much better! Much better!' He paused. 'I mean you still occasionally have the tonal quality of a complete amateur, but on the whole your breathing is almost there.' He paced a little, shaking his shoulders out. 'The middle section is your weak point. You need to be mezzo cantabile and mezzo diminuendo in order for your crescendo to be more powerful.'

  More slowly and more gently. Ianto seemed to be learning as much about Italian from Drew as he was about singing. That morning he'd suggested that it might be easier if Drew would just tell him what he meant in English. Drew hadn't even commented but said all he needed to about that with a disgusted glare.

  The chubby man looked at him, his eyes narrowing. 'Yes, the breathing's there, and you're hitting most of the notes OK, but you're lacking feeling and without that the music's nothing.'

  'What?' So much for feeling better about himself.

  'Emotion!' Drew flung his arms above his head in a typically overdramatic gesture. 'This song is all about love and passion! Two men realising they've both fallen in love with the same illusion of a fantasy woman, and then swearing their undying friendship despite this overwhelming passion they both feel.'

  'I know what the bloody song's about,' Ianto sighed. 'That's my best. I can't do better.'

  Drew shook his head. 'Yes, you can. I'm not talking about the notes, I'm talking about your expression.'

  'I don't do expression. I keep my feelings to myself.'

  'Doesn't take a genius to figure that out, darling.' Pressing the button to take the track back to the beginning, Drew shooed him backward. 'Just listen to me. I'll sing my part all the way through. Stand back and listen. You'll see what I mean.'

  Ianto took a couple of steps backwards into the aisle. Folding his arms, he waited for the intro to finish and Drew to start. Watching the little man in front of him, he almost felt the change, as if the air trembled when he began to sing. Drew was no more than a few bars in when the hairs on the backs of Ianto's arms began to stand on end. His mouth dried as he let the music run through him, all the power of the melody and lyrics streaming out from Drew.

  Ianto didn't feel his mouth open, and Drew definitely couldn't see how impressed his apprentice was because his own eyes were closed, his knees bending and body swaying as he set the song free to fill the church with its message of love more effectively than any sermon could.

  Suddenly Ianto felt an ache inside, wishing he could have heard Ben Pritchard singing alongside his lover rather than his own wooden baritone. Even from a few metres away, he could make out the tears that ran occasionally down Drew's face, as if, for the first time since Ben's terrible death, he was truly letting his grief out, singing it out to the world. It was beautiful.

  Jack drummed his fingers on the steering wheel inside the SUV. Sitting around doing nothing was not something he did well. Even with an apparently endless life ahead of him, it was a frustrating waste of time. Behind him, DI Cutler beat out a similar quiet rhythm on the back of the leather seat. It seemed the policeman wasn't too hot on inactivity either. No one spoke. They'd long ago run out of conversation, and the tension of the alien's no-show hummed throughout the car.

  Gritting his teeth, Jack stared out into the gloom of the falling night. Where the hell had the creature from the Silent Planet gone? It had to be out there somewhere and why the hell had it stopped attacking after such a frenzied start? And who the hell knew where it was really from anyway? All he had was guesswork and probability.

  As the hours ticked past, he had found he was starting to doubt himself, and self-doubt was another thing Captain Jack Harkness didn't do well. It irritated him. But this case had the taste of unfinished business, and that he couldn't doubt. The feeling came from his gut and that was rarely wrong. There was a chance he might mess up the small details, but never the big picture. He'd seen too much not to trust his instincts. Maybe the alien was lying low for a while. Maybe they'd have to sit around waiting until they'd all gone crazy, or Ianto was taking to the stage of the Millennium Centre, or next year's competition came round, but it would be back. Jack just knew.

  Beside him Gwen bristled, and Jack knew what she was going to say before her mouth opened. His pulse quickened.

  'Rift activity.'

  'Where?' The drumming of fingers stopped.

  'Everywhere.' Gwen frowned at the screen. 'Tiny spikes. Nothing major. I don't understand. They seem to be all over the city.'

  'That's not helping, Gwen.' Jack gripped the car door handle. They couldn't screw this up.

  'I'm just telling you what the machine is telling me.'

  'Don't just read it. Predict where it's going.'

  Gwen flashed her dark, angry eyes at hi
m. 'I'm not bloody Tosh. I'm doing my…' Her gaze back on the screen, she tilted her head. 'Hang on. They're converging. This is weird. It's like they're pulling together or something.' Recoiling, she flinched. 'Shit! We've got a big spike.' She looked up. 'It's coming together here! At the church!'

  Jack was out of the SUV before she'd finished her sentence, arms pumping as he sprinted up through the alley, Cutler's heavier tread echoing his own a few paces behind. The church grew up from the corner and he pushed himself towards it.

  EIGHTEEN

  Drew was just reaching the peak of his piece when Ianto's muscles stiffened slightly, his primal senses aware of danger even before it had quite arrived. Lost in the music, Drew sang on, but Ianto was no longer absorbed in his talent, the sound now merely a distraction as he glanced around trying to home in on what had disturbed him. He shivered, a chill running down his spine. Something was wrong.

  He looked up, just before a window set high in the wall above him smashed, sending shards of crimson-coloured glass plummeting to the floor like bloodied hail and carrying within it a figure that disintegrated into nothing as he tried to focus on it, becoming only a substance hidden between the fragments. Ducking instinctively, Ianto yanked the portable device free and, crouching, peered upwards. Where the hell was it?

  Drew had stopped singing and the backing music continued plaintively as the chubby man stared desperately at Ianto, fear wreaking havoc in his eyes before something caught at his chest and, as he gasped, his gaze dragged reluctantly to his left. Staying low and hidden by the aisle, Ianto moved forward, looking to see what Drew was staring at with such unconfined horror.