‘What’s wrong about tha-oh.’
‘Yup,’ said Jack. ‘It’s not selective. You might suddenly have a head full of maths tests and Monday mornings.’
Ianto smiled bravely. ‘Who’s to say I don’t already?’ He took the pill, which tasted pleasantly fruity.
‘Hmm,’ said Jack. ‘Hope that was the right pill.’ He patted down his pockets. ‘Ah well. Let me know if you start seeing clowns.’
‘Right,’ said Ianto quietly. ‘Well, let’s wait and see.’ He looked around the room. ‘What’s next?’
‘The ferry crash. Well, by all accounts, more of a ferry prang, really. Although that hasn’t stopped David Brigstocke calling it “a major maritime disaster” on Radio Wales.’
‘Tosser,’ tutted Gwen and Ianto together.
Jack stood up. ‘We should get going.’
Ianto remained seated. ‘Can I stay behind? If that’s all right? I’d like a chance to, you know, work on my memory. Do a few cosy, familiar things. Clean the coffee filter. Feed the Weevils. Stuff.’
‘Good idea,’ beamed Jack. ‘And anyway, I don’t trust you round sailors looking like that. I’ll take Gwen. Much safer.’
He swept out. Gwen scowled at his back and followed him.
Ianto waited until they’d gone, and then slumped onto the table, auburn hair spilling out across the lacquer. ‘Oh god,’ he moaned.
CAPTAIN JACK IS FEELING BUOYANT
You can navigate Cardiff Bay by a succession of expensive follies with interesting names.
Beyond the Welsh Assembly Anti-Terrorist Barriers (erected at vast expense before someone pointed out that you could drive round them) but not quite as far as Cardiff International Heliport, lies the newly opened Cardiff International Ferryport.
Really it was just a patch of Docks not suitable for executive homes or freight due to poisonous mould. So someone had come up with the idea of running a highly subsidised ferry route to Ireland.
It took longer than going via Swansea, but was cheaper, and the ferry had been painted a cheerful shade of green. It had launched a couple of months earlier, with a lot of carbon-neutral fanfare.
When it had opened for business, Gwen had toyed with going. #8216;Ooh, it’s just like the Eurostar,’ Rhys had cooed mockingly, which had put an end to it.
And now here she was, standing at the terminal with Jack, watching the remains of the ferry dragged into the Docks by a tugboat.
The ferry had been a fine bit of 1970s engineering, kept afloat with Norwegian pride and a fresh lick of paint. Now it looked like a kicked tin can, strips of metal fluttering in the breeze like flags.
‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Gwen.
‘I’ve been in worse,’ said Jack, with a hint of professional pride. ‘I’ve seen a World War Two mine rip a battleship apart like wet cardboard. Believe it or not, that ferry is still pretty much seaworthy. Ah, Norway, I salute you. Strong ships and even stronger sailors.’
‘Right,’ thought Gwen. ‘I’ll be spending the day interviewing stunned survivors in Portakabins while Jack’s chatting up the crew. Marvellous.’
The ferry chugged past them, filthy water gushing from tears in the sides.
‘No scorch marks,’ said Gwen.
Jack shrugged. ‘Not that unusual. Those are secondary explosions from the inside out.’ He squinted. ‘Yup. Good news. Definitely not claw marks.’
‘You just don’t want the paperwork,’ teased Gwen.
They watched the ferry bump unsteadily into port.
‘I don’t want any of this,’ he told her. ‘Aliens are the new Health and Safety Nightmare. There are people in high places who are desperate to blame a Rift-related cause for this. It’s more likely the boat just hit something – a World War Two mine’s a World War Two mine you didn’t see coming, whether or not it’s drifted through the Rift. I don’t like being scapegoated every time something goes wrong.’
‘Aliens ate my homework?’ Gwen laughed.
Jack laughed. ‘What a brave new world. Now go and find some eyewitnesses to talk to.’
‘What about Iantoya?’ asked Gwen. ‘Sure we don’t need him?’
‘Oh, he’s best off at the Hub. Until he feels… you know… himself.’
‘Jack Harkness, you are terrible. The poor lamb’s got nothing to look forward to apart from filing, making the coffee and sexual harassment.’
‘I know,’ said Jack. ‘I just want to surround him with familiar things.’
DORICE IS HER USUAL RED
Ianto had a quiet first morning as a woman. There was very little Rift activity, and only a few elderly tourists popped into the Tourist Information Centre that he manned above Torchwood. And then there was Dorice from the Shopping Centre, who dropped in with leaflets once a month. Dorice was, mostly in her own opinion, a right laugh. There was something about her that was a bit too red. He was never quite sure if it was her hair, her dress, her make-up or her nails, but the woman glowed.
He was surprised that he still couldn’t work it out. He’d kind of hoped that, now he was a proper woman, he’d have some kind of X-Ray Fashion Vision that would allow him to solve the mystery of Dorice’s redness. But no. There she was, leaving a huge lipstick mark on a cup of his excellent coffee, talking away, all hair and noise and redness. And still just as puzzlingly red. She was just a vaguely unattractive, slightly untidy, mildly overweight woman in her late forties.
But Dorice had talked, on and on, loudly and excitedly about developments and redevelopments in the Bay. Most of her talk was about the ferry crash, ‘which is a shame, as I hope it catches on. I was dead excited at a trip to Minehead. Fancy that – me and Harry taking a mucky break to Butlin’s. You know they’ve got their very own version of the Millennium Dome? Isn’t that nice, especially as I never got to make it to the proper one. Did you dear?’
Oddly enough, Ianto had. One of his very first jobs at Torchwood had been at the Dome. To this day, whenever he saw a picture of it, he’d remember what was sealed underneath it, and shudder.
And now suddenly Dorice was at the door, and smiling. ‘You do look lovely, dear. How long is my little bit of crumpet on holiday?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The nice lad they normally have running this place. Flirts like crazy, never serious though. You know the type. He’s a very neat young boy. His hair is very carefully arranged.’ She put the last two words in italics.
‘Oh.’ Ianto felt vaguely insulted. ‘Not long, I hope. I’m just a temp.’
Dorice gave him a pitying look. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear it, dear. Still, with that pair, I’m sure you’ll go far.’
And then the door shut with a tinkle, and Ianto checked his watch. He realised for the first time how wrong it looked – a bulky man’s watch around his tiny wrist. He was going to have to do something about it. Probably involving shopping. And Gwen. Hmm. She’d been a bit odd today – slightly like a cat defending her territory. Hmm. She’d not been like this around Tosh.
The thing was, Owen and Tosh would have been really handy right now. He’d admired Tosh – she was the only person in Torchwood who loved the place as much as he did. Something Ianto could only respect. She was quiet, polite, and thoughtful. Owen was just – well, he could be as nasty and bullying as he could be brilliant and charming. Even in those last months, when he’d hung around, all wrong and broken. Between them, they would know what to do.
He realised, with a certain dread, that he needed to pee again. That was a horror show he still hadn’t got used to. And these shoes were starting to hurt. Really hurt. He’d barely noticed them when he’d slipped them on this morning, but now it was like wearing a small pair of stilts made out of rusty chisels. Unsteadily, he hobbled off to the loo.