The Undertakers Gift (13 page)

‘It’s a message,’ Jack realised. ‘Harold brought it with him. He was trying to tell me something about the Undertaker’s Gift.’

‘But a video?’ Ianto wasn’t impressed. ‘It’s not even a DVD. . .’

‘It’s worse than that,’ said Jack, taking the cassette. His shoulders slumped. ‘It’s a Betamax.’

TWENTY-SEVEN

At the Black House it was still eerily quiet, but there was no sign of the dark men.

‘They’ve gone,’ Ray said. She didn’t know now whether to be relieved or disappointed. And, to her surprise, she realised that Wynnie was still holding her hand and a giddy rush of pleasure seeped through her whole body.

But then Wynnie let go of her hand to point towards the tree line. ‘There’s someone coming.’

For a second they almost panicked, until they realised it was just a woman – young, long black hair, rather striking in a leather motorcycle jacket and boots.

‘Hi,’ she said, without preamble or any kind of hesitation. She was clearly used to talking directly to complete strangers. ‘Is this the Black House?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ said Wynnie.

‘Who wants to know?’ Ray asked. The woman was older and taller and more attractive than she was, and it suddenly felt important that she kept close to Wynnie.

‘I’m Gwen Cooper,’ the woman said. She smiled at them. ‘You must be Rachel Banks and Meredydd-Wyn Morgan-Kelso.’

Both of them simply stood still and said nothing for a full five seconds. Ray felt a strange fear creep all over her, as if something had changed in her life that would alter things for ever, change things in ways that she couldn’t even imagine. There was a sudden, dizzying feeling of everything being out of control now, of finding that she was little more than a leaf blown by the wind – at the mercy of forces she could never comprehend or withstand.

‘Oh shit,’ Wynnie said eventually. ‘You’re Torchwood, aren’t you?’

Gwen Cooper just shrugged her shoulders. ‘Is this where you saw the funeral procession?’

‘Near here, yes,’ nodded Wynnie. ‘Apparently.’

Ray looked at him. ‘
Apparently
?’

‘Well, I didn’t see it. You did.’

‘It was around here, yes,’ Ray conceded. She spoke to Gwen. ‘How did you know? I mean, I’m assuming you read my blog, but. . .’

‘I told you not to mention Torchwood,’ Wynnie hissed.

‘We just want to find out what’s going on,’ Gwen told her. ‘Like you.’

‘I don’t want to make anything official,’ Ray said. ‘I mean, I don’t want to go to the police or anything. I could’ve done that, but I didn’t. I don’t want the authorities involved.’

‘Of course not,’ Gwen agreed. ‘Anyway, we’re not the authorities.’

‘Aren’t you a government department or something?’ Wynnie asked.

‘We deal with things that are too important to be left to the government or the police.’

Wynnie scratched his head. ‘You’re not going to wipe our memories, are you?’

‘No,’ said Gwen. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

Wynnie smiled but Ray felt a flash of annoyance. ‘I’m really not bothered about Torchwood or whatever you are or with creepy funerals or anything. Right now, I just want to find my friend. She said she was going to meet us here and now she’s missing and she won’t answer her phone.’

‘Gillian,’ nodded Gwen.

Wynnie gaped. ‘God, do you know
everything
about us?’

‘Not everything, no.’

‘Do you know where Gillian is?’ Ray asked.

‘No, but I might be able to help you find her. Try her mobile again.’

Ray looked immediately suspicious. ‘What do you mean – again?’ She bristled. ‘Have you been listening in on my phone calls?’

‘Do you want to find your friend or not?’

‘We’ve already tried her phone,’ Wynnie explained. ‘She’s not answering.’

Ray folded her arms. ‘My mobile’s gone dead anyway. Battery’s done in.’

‘Use mine,’ Gwen said, tossing her own mobile over.

Ray caught it and dialled Gillian’s number. A moment later they all heard a tinny, strangulated version of ‘Kiss You Off’ ringing out from somewhere nearby.

Ray and Wynnie both whirled around. ‘Bloody hell! That’s Gillian’s phone!’

‘It’s around here somewhere,’ Gwen confirmed.

Wynnie homed in on the ringtone just before the mobile cut over to voicemail. It was lying face down in a patch of scrubby, dead grass in the centre of the Black House. He picked it up and showed the display to Ray.

‘Five missed calls from me,’ Ray realised. ‘And one unknown.’ She looked down at Gwen’s mobile in her hand and slowly closed it.

‘She must’ve dropped it,’ Wynnie said.

‘No,’ Ray disagreed. ‘She wouldn’t drop it – not Gillian. She might be a lot of things but she’s careful with her phone because it’s her life.’

Even as she said the words she regretted it. Because suddenly it seemed that the three of them were looking at all that remained of Gillian, lying in the palm of Wynnie’s hand.

‘She’s been murdered,’ Ray moaned. ‘I know she has.’

‘Perhaps,’ Gwen said carefully, ‘she dropped her mobile on purpose.’

‘You mean like a clue?’ wondered Wynnie. He looked sceptical. ‘C’mon. That’s way too cool for Gillian.’

Gwen was kicking at the dried grass and soil where the phone had been found. Wynnie realised what she was doing and joined in. They quickly cleared away a large patch of weeds and Gwen gave a shout.

‘Here we go,’ she said.

There was a large square shape cut into the stone. The crack that formed the perimeter was clear of dirt and free of grass, and the shape was unmistakable. A trapdoor of some kind. It had been opened recently and someone had tried to conceal it with a patch of dead vegetation.

‘Might lead to a cellar or something.’ Wynnie dropped to one knee and began to feel around for a handle. ‘This was a church once, remember.’

‘Churches don’t often have cellars,’ Gwen said thoughtfully. ‘But they do have crypts.’

TWENTY-EIGHT

‘There you go,’ said Ianto, setting a large box down on Jack’s desk. ‘Told you it wouldn’t be a problem. One Betamax video recorder, brand new, still in its box, top-loader. Fell through the Rift from 1982 in May 2008.’

‘And you knew exactly where to find that?’ Jack looked impressed.

‘Cataloguing and storage. It’s in my job description.’

‘It is?’

‘Everything in its place and a place for everything, as the actress said to the bishop.’ Ianto fussed around, connecting a nest of wires from the VCR to one of the ancient black-and-white TV sets in the corner of Jack’s office. He slid Harold’s cassette into the large silver machine and they watched as the old Magpie TV warmed up, the screen slowly filling with interference before jerking into life as the video started to play.

Harold’s sharp, white features filled the little screen and his voice crackled out of the speaker.

‘Sorry about the use of such primitive technology, dear boy,’ he said. ‘The twenty-first century is so retro it’s untrue. Hope I’ve got it right, anyway. If you’re watching this then I’m probably already dead – I think there might be a couple of Hokrala heavies on my tail and I’m rather afraid they mean business.’

Jack and Ianto exchanged a guilty look.

‘Time to cut to the chase,’ Harold’s 2D ghost continued. ‘The Hokrala Corp use warp shunts to send stuff through to you and it’s damaging the fabric of time and space around the Rift. That’s how I’ve been able to flit back and forth and visit you like this. But it’s also why there’s such a lot of rubbish seeping through to the twenty-first century right now that you could probably do without.’

‘That’s true,’ muttered Ianto.

‘Hokrala are targeting your time period because they think it’s a weak spot in Earth’s history, and they’re right.’ Harold leaned in towards the camera, pointing emphatically. ‘You’re their Number One enemy, Jack. They’ve tried everything they can to get rid of you by legal means, but you’ve never been one to abide by the law. So they’ve sent some kind of assassin – I don’t know who or what but I know they’re already on Earth.’

Ianto and Jack looked at each other again. Jack eased the Webley out of its holster and Ianto reached for his automatic.

‘Once you’re safely out of the way, Hokrala can do whatever they want with twenty-first-century Earth,’ Harold smiled thinly.

‘Great,’ said Jack. ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’

‘But here’s something you don’t know,’ Harold continued. ‘Hokrala have found a way to activate something called the Undertaker’s Gift. I’ve no idea what it is, apart from the fact that it is some kind of secret weapon and they’ve resurrected the last of the Already Dead to deliver it. That means bad news for Earth, Jack, whichever way you look at it.’

‘The Already Dead?’ repeated Ianto.

‘Let me tell you about the Already Dead,’ said Harold. ‘They are suicide soldiers from the Keshkali Ring Worlds – their own solar system was destroyed by a temporal fusion device thought to have been concealed deep beneath the planetary crust by human hand. The resulting chronic spasm unravelled the molecular bonds of every living creature that was unfortunate enough to survive the blast. Those survivors have paid a terrible price for their continued existence. The Keshkali DNA has been devolved to a point where they can hardly exist in the physical sense at all, apart from the rags that hold their diseased remains together. They live in continual pain and they have a psychotic hatred of all humans. They’ve been made the guardians of the Undertaker’s Gift and they’re bringing it to Earth. They know they’re doomed but they see this as a final chance for redemption. Where Keshkali went, they want Earth to follow.’

‘A world of suffering. . .’ Ianto said softly.

‘You will have to fight them,’ Harold said. ‘The Already Dead is a state of mind for these chaps rather than a literal meaning, but that makes them no less difficult to deal with. They will be hard to take down – so if you intend to tackle them at any point in this time period with primitive projectile weapons then make sure you have enough firepower.’

‘I think we’ll cope,’ Jack muttered.

‘Sufficient impact wounds will overcome what the science boys calls the mutated lipid cohesion that holds them together. They’ll literally fall apart. Which sounds like fun.’

Ianto raised an eyebrow.

‘But they will be armed,’ Harold continued. ‘Compressed praxis gas flechette weapons. Don’t underestimate them. One shot from those could pin a human being to a brick wall.’

‘Which doesn’t sound like fun,’ murmured Ianto.

‘Unfortunately that’s all I can tell you, Jack,’ Harold said. ‘Except that the Already Dead are already here and you’ve got to stop them. The Undertaker’s Gift is going to mean the end of everything unless you do.’

The TV picture shimmered and Harold looked nervously off camera at something Jack and Ianto couldn’t see. Then he turned back to face his invisible audience and said, ‘I think they’re coming for me. I’ve got one chance to teleport and I’m going to try and get this message to you. If I don’t make it. . . then good luck. Because you’re going to need it, dear boy.’

The picture faded and the video clicked off in the machine. As it began to automatically rewind, Jack stood up and gazed out of the circular window which overlooked the rest of the Hub. Harold’s crumpled corpse still lay where it had fallen.

‘I’ll tend to the body,’ Ianto told Jack. ‘There’s no need for you—’

Jack shook his head. ‘It’s all right. We’ll do it together. You look beat anyway.’

‘What do you think about these assassins, then? If they were after Harold they might follow him here.’

‘Let ’em come,’ Jack growled. ‘I’m in the mood for a fight.’

‘I don’t think they’re planning on a boxing match. They’re going to come armed and they’re going to try and kill you.’

‘Well, they’re gonna be disappointed, aren’t they? I mean, any kind of death threat is a bit pointless in my case. Either way, the Hokrala assassins are the
least
important consideration here.’ Jack looked directly into Ianto’s eyes, his own wide and blue and earnest. ‘We have to start thinking about protecting Earth rather than me. If these goons turn up, we’ll deal with them – we’re ready. In the meantime we concentrate on the Undertaker’s Gift.’

‘All right,’ Ianto nodded, blew out a deep breath. ‘The Already Dead sound a lot like the people Rachel Banks and Francis Morgan’s friend described. Maybe Gwen was right.’

‘She usually is.’ Jack smiled at the thought of her. ‘Those police instincts will always lead her to the truth and she won’t stop until she finds it. She’s
our
secret weapon, Ianto.’

‘And what am I?’

‘Hot in a suit,’ Jack said. ‘As if you didn’t know. C’mon.’

TWENTY-NINE

They stowed Harold’s body in one of the freezer compartments in the Torchwood morgue. Jack watched stony-faced as Ianto pushed the drawer in and closed the hatch.

‘We seem to have been surrounded by death recently,’ Jack said thoughtfully. ‘Everywhere we turn – corpses, graves, coffins, funerals. . .’