The Undertakers Gift
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Authors: Trevor Baxendale
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Epub ISBN: 9781409071860
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Published in 2009 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group company
© Trevor Baxendale, 2009
Trevor Baxendale has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this
Work in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
Torchwood is a BBC Wales production for BBC One
Executive Producers: Russell T Davies and Julie Gardner
Original series created by Russell T Davies and broadcast on BBC Television.
‘Torchwood’ and the Torchwood logo are trademarks of the
British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
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ISBN 978 1 846 07782 1
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Commissioning Editor: Albert DePetrillo
Series Editor: Steve Tribe
Production Controller: Phil Spencer
Cover design by Lee Binding @ Tea Lady © BBC 2009
Typeset in Albertina and Century Gothic
Printed and bound in Germany by GGP Media GmbH
Recent titles in the
Torchwood
series from BBC Books:
9. ALMOST PERFECT
James Goss
10. INTO THE SILENCE
Sarah Pinborough
11. BAY OF THE DEAD
Mark Morris
12. THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT
Guy Adams
13. RISK ASSESSMENT
James Goss
14. THE UNDERTAKER’S GIFT
Trevor Baxendale
15. CONSEQUENCES
James Moran, Joseph Lidster,
Andrew Cartmel, Sarah Pinborough
and David Llewellyn
For Martine, Luke and Konnie
Acknowledgements
I am extremely grateful for being given the opportunity to write another
Torchwood
story. My thanks to Steve Tribe, patient and considerate editor, and to Gary Russell and all at BBC Wales. I hope I’ve done you all proud.
There are many other people in the production team who deserve a mention – too many to thank individually, but I can’t let the chance go by without offering heartfelt praise and congratulations to all the producers and in particular the people who make writing about Jack, Gwen and Ianto so easy – so here’s to you, John, Eve and Gareth. And a special thank you to Russell T Davies, for creating such lovely characters in the first place – and letting me include one or two guest cameos in this book!
There is a host of people at BBC Books to thank, too – not least of which are Lee Binding, the cover artist, Kari Speers for proofreading, and the Big Chief himself, Albert DePetrillo.
Special mention, as ever, to my good friend Pete Stam. And a special ‘shout out’ for Phil Macklin and Matty Ellison!
And last but not least, I am grateful to my family – Martine, Luke and Konnie, to whom I dedicate all my books because I simply wouldn’t be able to write them without their support and patience. This one meant a lot of very late nights (again) and, more often than not, a thoughtful, frowning silence as I thought about plot problems when I should have been doing something else entirely. I’m very lucky having all of you.
TORCHWOOD THE UNDERTAKER’SGIFTTrevor BaxendaleBOOKS
LAST WEEK
ONE
‘Why does it always rain at funerals?’ asked Gwen.
‘It doesn’t,’ Jack said. ‘It just seems that way.’
They were standing under a large, black umbrella. A heavy, persistent downpour ran off it in streams and spattered onto the turf at their feet.
‘It’s freezing, too,’ muttered Ianto. He clutched the umbrella in one gloved hand, his shoulders hunched miserably inside his black Melton overcoat. It was buttoned up to the collar. His face was pinched and white. ‘What are we doing here, exactly?’
‘Paying our respects.’ Jack was wearing his usual RAF greatcoat, the blue-grey wool speckled black with raindrops. He looked thoughtful and pale, as if the grim weather had sucked out his usual good humour and spat it on the ground.
‘And who’re we paying our respects to?’ asked Gwen, zipping her leather jacket up to her throat.
The mourners had gathered by the side of the grave, huddled together under a large bouquet of umbrellas. The curate was holding one over the vicar as he read solemnly from the Bible, his voice thick with mucous. Occasionally he would stop to wipe at his nose with a handkerchief.
‘Thomas Greenway,’ Jack said. ‘Twenty-one last month. Hit by a bus last week. Didn’t look when he crossed the road.’
Gwen looked back at the mourners. ‘So what’s Torchwood’s interest in this?’
‘I’m a friend of the family.’
The mourners were glaring at Jack with barely concealed hatred.
‘Sort of,’ Jack added.
The pallbearers lowered the coffin into the grave, and Jack shuddered. The parents of the deceased were crying now, the mother trying hard not to give in to the wracking sobs that were lining up in her chest.
‘Ashes to ashes,’ intoned the vicar, trying not to raise his voice over the rain. ‘Dust to dust . . .’
‘There’s a problem, though,’ Jack said quietly.
A sudden, loud banging could be heard, like someone knocking urgently on a door. It was coming from the grave. From inside the coffin. People began to step back, startled and confused.
‘He ain’t dead yet,’ Jack said.
The people by the graveside began to moan in distress as the banging continued. They backed away, further and further, leaving only the vicar. He raised his right hand and drew the sign of the cross over the coffin as the knocking increased in ferocity.
‘When Tommy was 5 years old,’ continued Jack, ‘he was infected by a Magelnian Twort. Nasty little parasite that came through the Rift. Stays dormant until the host body’s biologic homeostasis fails and the core temperature drops below a certain level.’
The coffin lid was starting to splinter as it was attacked violently from the inside.
‘And then what?’ asked Gwen, beginning to wish she had brought a gun.
‘It starts to mutate the host, a full-on DNA rewrite. It’s been happening since the day Tommy died. I tried to warn his folks, but they wouldn’t listen. Insisted on a proper burial, not a cremation.’
With a loud crack the coffin lid burst open and a shrouded figure emerged. The linen fell away to reveal something only vaguely humanoid, covered in flesh like black rubber. The only discernible feature was a suppurating red orifice in the centre of its head. The assembled mourners groaned with revulsion as the hole puckered open to reveal a ring of jagged teeth.
‘So I’m afraid it’s hello and goodbye,’ said Jack, drawing his Webley revolver and shooting the thing through the centre of its head. Mutant brain matter sprayed across the grave, and the corpse fell back into the coffin with a heavy thud.
For a moment all that could be heard was the echo of the shot rolling around the cemetery and the harsh, excited cries of the rooks that had flown out of nearby trees in shock.
Then silence.
‘Bloody Torchwood,’ said the vicar, taking off his glasses to wipe specks of alien goo from the lenses.
Ianto stepped forward, gently offering the deceased’s mother a glass of water. He had seemingly conjured the glass out of thin air. It was a skill that only the very best butlers could master, as Jack would often point out. He loved to tease.
‘Here,’ Ianto urged softly. ‘Drink this.’
Stunned into acquiescence, Mrs Greenway sipped the water. ‘That
wasn’t
Tommy,’ she muttered, dazed. ‘That
wasn’t
my Tommy . . .’
‘Of course it wasn’t,’ Ianto assured her.
‘Wh-what was it?’
‘Allow me to explain.’ He led her away from the grave towards the rest of the mourners. The water was laced with Retcon. Ianto was highly skilled in the art of proffering reasonable explanations for unreasonable incidents, and he had a box of the little white pills in his coat pocket. There would be quite a few people needing a drink and an explanation right now.