The Undertakers Gift (14 page)

Ianto rested his head against the steel door and closed his eyes.

‘Hey,’ said Jack. ‘You OK?’

‘I don’t feel too good, actually.’

‘You don’t look it. Take five, Ianto. Get your head down and rest. I’ll tidy up here.’

Jack led him back towards the main part of the Hub. Ianto allowed himself to be steered to the low settee against one of the old walls, where he sat down heavily.

‘Drink?’ Jack asked. ‘Coffee?’

Ianto looked up sharply, alarmed. ‘No! I mean – no, thanks.’

Jack looked hurt.

‘Making coffee,’ Ianto explained patiently, ‘is an art. Trust me on this.’

‘How hard can it be?’

‘No, Jack, really,’ insisted Ianto. ‘It would be like letting a chimpanzee loose with Van Gogh’s paint box.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

‘No offence intended, but it is best left to the experts.’ Ianto looked up earnestly and sighed. ‘Sometimes, Jack, it’s important to know your limitations.’

‘I wasn’t aware I had any.’ A thought struck him. ‘How about tea?’

Ianto shuddered. ‘Water would be nice.’

‘Comin’ up!’ Jack saluted smartly. ‘You just hang on in there, Barista Boy.’

Ianto watched Jack move off and then sat back with a grimace. He wasn’t just tired, he was in pain. There was a sore spot on his chest and he felt nauseous. He didn’t want Jack to know how bad he felt because Torchwood was already understaffed. They couldn’t afford sick leave, that was for sure – especially not now, during one of their busiest times ever.

Wincing, Ianto pulled his shirt up out of his waistband and felt his chest. He was sweating a lot.

He got up and went to the bathroom, where he took a good, long look at himself in the mirror. His skin was pasty and his eyes looked as if he had just been woken up from a deep sleep. He stuck out his tongue, which was grey and furred. He opened wide and said, ‘Aaaahhh. . .’ but couldn’t see anything that looked especially wrong. Although he wasn’t a doctor and wouldn’t know what to look for anyway, he had once suffered a bout of septic tonsillitis and remembered the sight of the yellow ulcers at the back of his throat only too well. There was nothing like that now and, besides, he didn’t have a sore throat.

Just a sore chest.

He opened his waistcoat and shirt and examined the skin. It looked normal enough, except for a dull red patch just below his ribs. It felt itchy but he didn’t want to touch it. His mother had warned him never to scratch a rash in case it made it worse. There was some antiseptic ointment in one of the bathroom cupboards and he began to look for it.

‘Ianto?’ Jack’s voice drifted in from the Hub. ‘Water.’

‘I’ll be right out,’ Ianto called back. ‘Just give me a minute.’

He found the antiseptic cream and applied it sparingly to the affected area, following the instructions on the tube to the letter. His mother had warned him about that too. Owen, he recalled, used to open a bottle of medicine and throw the instructions away. ‘Just a lot of crap about side effects written by lawyers,’ he would say. ‘You may experience the following symptoms: drowsiness, insomnia, dizziness, nausea, increased hunger, decreased hunger, loss of taste, loss of smell, problems with vision, with hearing, skin disorders, itching, stomach aches, headaches, hair growth or hair loss. Well, that covers just about everything so there’s no point in trying to sue ’em. Ditch the small print and follow your instincts, that’s what I always say.’

But Ianto was a small-print person. His life was based on precision. He put the ointment tube back in the box and closed the lid carefully. He returned it to its appointed place in the bathroom cabinet, alongside the other medicines, label outwards for easy identification. He would be able to find it in the event of a power-cut too, because he had arranged them all in alphabetical order.

He took some deep breaths and then splashed cold water on his face. He straightened up and dried himself off, swallowing bile. Then he fastened his shirt and waistcoat and fixed his tie. Ran a comb through his hair.

God, he felt awful.

THIRTY

‘Maybe we should call the police,’ said Wynnie nervously.

Gwen and Ray had managed to force open the hatch. At first Gwen had thought it might just be a drainage cover, long forgotten by the council and now a pointless adjunct to the remains of the Black House. But as soon as it creaked open she knew she was onto something. She felt the familiar pulse of excitement in her chest and stomach as a narrow flight of stairs was revealed leading down into the darkness.

Leaves fluttered past, the sky darkening, ready for a storm. Gwen took a deep breath and made her decision. To hell with Jack – she’d do this herself and show him there was no need to hold her hand all the time. She reached into her jacket pocket and produced a small but powerful LED torch.

Without waiting – fearful that she might change her mind if she thought about it too much – Gwen started down the steps, stooping as she went below ground level. The torchlight wavered in front of her. ‘Are you coming or staying?’ she called over her shoulder.

‘Staying,’ said Wynnie, and at the same time Ray said, ‘Coming.’

Ray looked sorrowfully at Wynnie. ‘I’ve got to go. I want to find Gillian.’

‘That’s a job for the police,’ Wynnie insisted.

‘But Gillian’s barely been missing for an hour or so – the police won’t do anything about that. She’s an adult. They wouldn’t do anything until she’d been gone a day or more. OK, so we found her phone – but what does that prove? Nothing. She dropped it.’

‘Everything about this,’ said Wynnie carefully, ‘is bad. Wrong. The whole place feels. . . wrong.’

‘Exactly. And how do we tell the police about that? Or about the pallbearers from the funeral cortège?’ She reached out and rubbed his arm. ‘Come on, Wynnie. Let’s check this out ourselves first, while we can. We’ve come this far.’

He drew a long breath. ‘If you’re sure. . .’

She almost laughed. ‘I’m not sure about
anything
any more.’

‘All right,’ he said heavily, taking her by the hand. ‘Let’s do it.’

They went down the steps, hurrying after the torchlight. At the bottom of the stone steps was a narrow, brick-walled passageway. It was noticeably colder and damp down here.

‘How do you two feel about rats?’ asked Gwen as they caught up.

‘Um,’ said Ray, in the manner of someone who wanted to say, ‘I can’t stand the bloody things.’

‘There are a few down here,’ Gwen explained. She was trying to sound unconcerned and, to her credit, almost managing it. ‘They’re steering clear of the light, though.’

She shone the torch down the passageway and a number of grey shapes darted away into the shadows. ‘Yuck.’

‘Actually, I quite like rats,’ said Wynnie. ‘I used to have one as a pet.’

‘Good for you,’ said Ray. She pulled him closer. ‘I had cats. Work it out.’

‘It widens out a bit here,’ reported Gwen. She had moved ahead, and her voice echoed dully from the walls. In the torchlight they could see streaks of green where the damp had really got a hold and allowed things to grow.

‘Smells funny down here,’ Wynnie said. ‘Like an old toilet.’

‘Just watch your step,’ Gwen warned. ‘It’s a bit uneven and wet underfoot. And then it looks like there are more steps ahead.’

‘Going down?’

‘Yup.’

‘I might have guessed,’ Wynnie grumbled. ‘Are you sure this is the right thing to do?’

‘You can go back if you want,’ Gwen told him.

‘He’s staying with us,’ Ray said. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Looks like it.’

They went carefully down the next flight of steps. These were not as steep as those that led down from the surface, but they went on for longer. It was very cold and damp. A crowd of rats suddenly dispersed as Gwen’s torchlight found them. Their shrill cries disappeared into the gloom along with their lank, grey tails.

‘Not enjoying this any more,’ said Wynnie plaintively.

‘Shh.’

‘What are we listening for?’ whispered Ray.

Gwen held up a hand for silence, waited for a few heartbeats, then said, ‘Dunno. Thought I heard something. Probably just the rats.’

She started forward again, and Ray made sure she and Wynnie stayed close. ‘So, you do this all the time, do you?’ Ray asked. ‘I mean, for a living?’

‘Sort of,’ Gwen said.

‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ Wynnie said. ‘And I’ve decided that I really, definitely, completely do not like this one little bit.’

‘Honestly,’ said Ray. ‘You’re like Shaggy in
Scooby-Doo
. What’s the matter with you? Get a grip.’

‘I’m beginning to understand how Shaggy felt,’ Wynnie said. ‘But at least he had Scooby to back him up.’

‘Hold it.’ Gwen stopped, shining the torch at her feet. ‘Recognise that?’

There was a little handbag lying in the circle of light: blue suede with a white dog on it.

Ray swallowed, feeling sick, a hand to her mouth. ‘That’s Gillian’s bag. Oh my god, that’s her bag.’

Wynnie gripped her arm. ‘Steady. It doesn’t mean she’s down here. Thieves could’ve stolen it, dumped it down here when they’d finished with it. Kids, even.’

‘He’s got a point,’ Gwen said, kneeling down. She used a pen to tease the handbag open a little and shone her torch inside. ‘But it looks like the purse and all her stuff are still in here. I can see a couple of loose pound coins too. So probably not thieves.’

‘OK.’ Wynnie swallowed hard. It was probably his imagination, his natural fear of the unknown, but some nameless dread was forming a tight, uncomfortable knot in his chest. ‘I
really
think we should all go back now,’ he said.

‘But Gillian could still be down here,’ Ray insisted.

‘Just a few more minutes,’ Gwen promised.

Wynnie looked unsure. ‘All right. I’ll stay too. But only because of you.’

Ray smiled back at him and squeezed his hand. ‘It’s OK,’ she told him. ‘We’ll be fine.’

Gwen had ventured further ahead. ‘It looks like this might lead to some sort of crypt. There’s a doorway here.’

In the torchlight it looked very dark, but then something moved in the shadows beyond and a figure stepped into view. Gwen, Ray and Wynnie all jumped and the torch beam jerked wildly before settling on a pallid, round face surrounded by matted blonde hair.

‘Gillian!’ gasped Ray, stepping forward. ‘Oh my God!’

Gillian stared back at her without saying a word, clearly in shock. Her eyes were wide and frightened and she was shaking.

‘What happened to you?’ Ray wondered. ‘I thought you were dead!’ She held out a hand. ‘Come on, let’s get you out of here. Wynnie’s here with me and this is Gwen. . .’

But then Gillian opened her mouth. Something glistened inside and a dark liquid began to ooze down her chin as if she was dribbling ink.

Ray recoiled as Gillian lurched stiffly towards her. Her mouth began to work as if trying to say something, but the effort seemed immense.

‘Go. . .’ The word was coughed up with more black slime. ‘Go. . . and never come back. . .’

The words slipped from her lips on a dark river of unguent and then she tumbled forward, crashing to her knees on the concrete floor. She fell forward onto her face without making any effort to break her fall, the impact echoing down the passageway with a sickening crunch.

Ray was staggering backwards, her eyes wide, the breath tearing from her chest in panicky gusts. Gillian lay on the floor, quivering as a pool of blackness opened up beneath her.

Dimly, Ray was aware of Gwen pulling a large, blocky gun from the waistband of her jeans and pointing it along the passageway. There were more figures coming through the door now – tall, dark men with faces swathed in old, stained bandages.

The pallbearers.

In the fitful light of Gwen’s torch, their eyes glittered between the tiny slits in the bindings.

‘Go!’ Gwen shouted, jerking her head back along the corridor. ‘Run!’

Ray felt her hand grabbed by Wynnie, and together they began to stumble backwards, nothing in their minds now except a blind desire to put as much distance as possible between themselves and this awful, underground world.

But Wynnie ground to a halt before they had even begun to run.

‘There’s more,’ he said in a fearful whisper. ‘We’re trapped.’

There were more pallbearers standing in the passageway behind them. Slowly they began to walk forward, gloved hands outstretched.

THIRTY-ONE

‘Keep back!’ Gwen yelled, levelling the Glock. If she squeezed the trigger now, it would send a tungsten-cored 9mm parabellum bullet straight through the centre of the nearest pallbearer’s bandaged forehead.

Gwen never opened fire unless it was absolutely necessary – but she had to establish some kind of control of the situation here, and urgently.

‘Hold it right there,’ she ordered. She summoned every ounce of conviction she could muster, trying to sound confident and assertive. She made sure that the barrel of her gun did not waver at all. She held it up at eye level and gazed unblinkingly along the sight, lining up the luminous foresight with the V notch at the rear of the pistol.