As Ianto walked out, he was oblivious to the two flour handprints over the back of his skirt.
Back out in the rain, he took three steps, trying to eat the chips and shield them from the weather. Steam rose from them, wafting around in the downpour. They didn’t taste of much, other than hot, but somehow they comforted him. A crowd of blokes edged past, their eyes all over him. Someone grabbed his arse, and he flinched and forced himself to move on. If only you bloody knew, he thought.
Later, he’d ask Gwen how she coped with an evening of constant ogling. She’d grin and say, ‘Well, most of the time, I was all padded up in my lovely copper’s outfit. That tends to soften the curves a bit. You still get a bit of chat, mind, but it’s all “awright luv?” banter. Honestly, if I’m lucky, someone’ll tell me that they’ll come quietly. You know. Clever. But not so bad.’
Yeah, Ianto would say, but what about when she was out… properly? And Gwen would shrug and grin. ‘I gave as good as I got.’ And Ianto didn’t doubt it for a second.
But for the moment there was just the chips and the rain. Ianto pressed on, past the bright lights of the last shop open selling cigarettes in Cardiff. One foot in front of the other.
These bloody, bloody shoes. I am never doing this again. And definitely never sober.
The chips were cold and damp. The rain was in everything.
I am completely soaked and sodden. I will never be warm and dry. I absolutely hate being a woman.
Ianto saw something in the street ahead, a figure standing in the shadows by the scaffolding. Something really quite-
Oh is that a cab?
Ianto rushed towards the flickering amber light sluicing down the road. He knew that around him a mini-stampede of drunk boys and desperate girls were all lurching towards the cab. But Ianto knew that he needed it more than anyone else. Screw the shoes, he was going to get it.
He got his hand on the door and was met by the baleful, seen-it-all gaze of the cabbie. ‘You going to be sick?’ asked the voice.
‘Stone-cold sober,’ promised Ianto. The door clicked open and he climbed gratefully in.
‘There’s a charge for sick, you know. And I hate having to scrub the back out. Why they can’t do it in a bag, I dunno. Bloody animals.’
And the cab puttered away, taking Ianto home through the storm. He sat there, hands scrunched round his bag of damp chips, thinking back to what he’d seen on the street just before he’d noticed the cab, with all its amber promise of home and central heating and towels. Because, as he’d been waving his hands at the cab, there’d been a man standing just ahead of him in the street. The man had been standing in the shadows of some scaffolding by the market. He’d just been standing there, looking at Ianto. It hadn’t been a look of lust, desire or even disgust. The look had been one of shock, or fear. Like he’d seen a ghost.
Ianto unwrapped the dead bag of chips and stared at them. Am I a ghost?
Standing there in the rain, watching the taxi drive off, Ross Kielty couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.
Everyone in Cardiff slept badly that night.
GWEN IS AWAKE FIRST
Gwen lay in bed, killing time before the alarm by staring at the back of Rhys’s head.
‘I know what you’re doing, you know,’ mumbled Rhys without moving. ‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’ Gwen was all innocence.
‘You are staring at the back of my head. I can tell.’
‘How?’
‘Burning sensation. Will you be happy if I get a bald spot? I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, no worries about that. Fine head of hair. Few bits of grey, though. Quite a few.’
‘No way. We Williamses don’t go grey.’
‘Awwww, Rhys. It’s fine – get used to going grey. There’s no harm in a bit of grey. It’s… distinguished.’
‘I. Am. Not. Grey.’
‘Of course you’re not, love. Now, hurry up and storm off and make us some tea.’
‘Not until you admit that I’ve not got grey hair.’
There was a click, and then Gwen leaned over him holding up her camera phone jubilantly.
‘Yes. I think it’s called salt-and-pepper. See?’
‘That’s just bad light.’
Rhys pulled the covers over his head.
‘Just go and make the tea.’
IANTO IS STAYING IN BED
Ianto Jones had a difficult second day as a woman. It started with waking up from dreams of dark, cold water and then with a shock, as though he’d fallen, spread out in his bed. And he’d forgotten, for the first few seconds, stretching out to touch the radio alarm, seeing his long, slender arm – seeing it but not noticing it.
And then he’d remembered.
Normally, Ianto Jones would wake up, swing his legs out of the bed, slope off for a pee and a shower and be out of the flat in twenty minutes. He’d have laid out his suit and shirt the night before, his lunch waiting in a Tupperware box in the fridge. It was order and a system, and he was proud of it.
But that was the old Ianto Jones. The new Ianto Jones sat in bed, wrapped in a duvet, listening to the radio babble away, staring out of the window. He didn’t even have much of a view, but he didn’t really know what else to do. He just watched the barren tops of three trees sway about in the wind like empty flagpoles.
Nearly an hour passed by. He went and stood in the shower, staring at the mirror as it steamed up and hid his new body from view. And he stood there feeling invisible and warm and hidden until he felt guilty about using that much hot water. And then he got out of the shower and dried quickly before the mirror cleared. Then he crawled back into the warmth of the duvet.
He heard the click of the door, and ignored it. He knew it was Jack standing there in his bedroom doorway, looking at him.
Neither of them spoke for a bit. Then Ianto managed, ‘I never gave you a key.’
‘And I never really needed one, but the gesture would have been nice.’
‘Ah well.’ Ianto heard Jack move across the room and felt him settle on the bed next to him.
‘Well, here am I,’ said Jack, ‘in the bedroom of a beautiful, naked Torchwood operative. Anything could happen.’
‘You realise the only word I heard was “beautiful”?’
‘I realise. I’m checking that you’re OK.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I dunno.’ Jack nodded. ‘You never even considered getting somewhere in Grangetown with a view?’
‘There are no views in Grangetown.’
‘Good point.’ Jack leaned in and wrapped a big arm around the duvet and Ianto, drawing them both in. Ianto let himself be folded up, marvelling at how much wet hair he had.
‘I miss you, you know,’ said Jack. Ianto laughed. ‘I miss me.’
‘But you’re still in there.’
‘Am I? It feels less and less like me. This body just gets more and more perfect. I can almost sense it – it hates me. I don’t belong inside it. I’m the wrong soul in the driving seat.’ He looked across at Jack.
‘If the real owner is somewhere out there in your body, she’s not shown up. Nothing.’
‘It’s at times like this,’ sighed Ianto, ‘we need Tosh.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Jack.
‘Apart from the whole science bit, she had some great jackets.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Jack. He stood up and reached out his hand. Ianto took it. ‘Come on, Miss Jones. Let’s put on some clothes and face the day.’
EMMA WEBSTER IS PLOTTING REVENGE
It was on Tuesday that Vile Kate finally noticed the change in Emma. It had taken her a day longer than everyone else.
Kate had been in one of Her Meetings. These went on for a long time, were supposedly very difficult, and she pretended she found them A Terrible Chore, while at the same time dropping simpering hints about how Vital she was to the organisation, and how close she was to all the powerful people. When Kate walked in, she was talking to Arwel, the new researcher. ‘Honestly, she put down her Blackberry and gave me a big hug and told me how nice this perfume was. Do you like it? It’s very similar to something Posh wears.’