The Undertakers Gift (2 page)

Gwen had been left with the umbrella. She stood with Jack at the graveside and looked down at the crumpled heap in the coffin. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,’ she said. ‘And I suppose that’s probably a good thing.’

‘It is,’ Jack confirmed. ‘I’ve stood by way too many gravesides. And I’ve been in a few. It never gets any easier.’

There was a disturbing, faraway look in his eyes. Gwen had seen that look before. She thought of Tosh and Owen, and guessed that Jack had stood over the graves of a great many Torchwood operatives in his time – colleagues and friends, and probably lovers as well. Gwen wondered if he would end up standing by her grave one day. And when she caught the desolate expression in those clear blue eyes as they turned to look at her, she knew he was wondering the same thing.

Gwen struggled for a way to change the subject and found, with relief, that there was something to change it for her. On the far side of the cemetery, ghost-like in the shadow of the slender birches that circled the graveyard, was a thin, dark figure in a long coat. He looked very pale, and he was watching them carefully. Gwen touched Jack’s arm. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Trouble,’ said Jack, following her gaze.

The spectral figure waited for them to join him beneath the trees. Gwen had mistaken him for another mourner, or perhaps the driver of the hearse – his long, buttoned coat stretched down to his ankles, and he was wearing black gloves. But, close up, Gwen realised that he was not even human. He was preternaturally thin, the skin of his face was as white as chalk, and he was completely hairless. He had grey eyes with vertical pupils and nictitating eyelids. The lips were white, the interior of his mouth blue-black when he spoke.

‘Jack!’ he hissed by way of greeting. It sounded like an expletive.

‘Do you two know each other?’ asked Gwen, slightly irritated by the way the alien was pointedly ignoring her. His goat-like eyes were fixed only on Jack. Nothing unusual there, she supposed.

‘Gwen Cooper, meet Harold.’

Gwen blinked. ‘Hello, Harold.’

The alien ignored her.

‘I don’t know his real name,’ Jack confessed. ‘So I call him Harold. He prefers to remain incognito.’

‘I come with a warning,’ Harold said, somewhat portentously. He raised a gloved hand to his lips and Gwen was not in the least surprised to see that it held a cigarette. He took a long drag and then blew smoke out through his aquiline nose. ‘Your old friends from Hokrala Corp are on the warpath again.’

Jack shrugged. ‘I know all about them, Harold. They’ve been coming here every year since the turn of the century, trying to land a writ on me. Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘All right,’ said Harold, aiming a smoke ring at Gwen.

‘Hey,’ said Gwen, wafting.

Harold’s gaze remained on Jack. ‘They’re planning more than legal action this time, Jack. Hokrala want you by the balls . . .’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘. . .  and they’re going to squeeze until you scream.’

‘I can handle the Hokrala Corp lawyers.’

‘Is that a fact? Good for you.’ Harold took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘But I happen to know that they’re planning something a little more fatal than a writ this time. Word is they’ve hired an assassin.’

Jack laughed. ‘An assassin?’

‘Yes. They want you out of the way – permanently.’

‘They’re going to find that a bit difficult,’ mused Gwen.

Harold gave a minute shrug. ‘Please yourselves. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘OK.’ Jack straightened his face and nodded. ‘Thanks for the tip-off. But, really, I think we can handle it.’

Harold sighed theatrically. ‘You always were the glib one, Jack – silver of tongue and pert of cheek. But listen to a word of advice from an old
acquaintance
.’ He pronounced the word ‘acquaintance’ in a way that quite clearly differentiated it from ‘friend’.

Jack’s eyes narrowed fractionally. He could sense trouble. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know the full details, but I do know that the Hokrala people are worried – very worried – that things are about to go somewhat awry for Earth in the twenty-first century.’

‘Tell them not to worry. We’ve got it covered.’

‘Hmm. Torchwood.’ Harold looked as if he had just licked the bottom of his shoe. ‘Well, that could just be the problem.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Gwen asked.

Harold glanced at her and sniffed, as if he was reluctant to even speak to her. ‘They don’t think Torchwood can handle it.’

‘Handle what?’

‘The twenty-first century.’

‘Hokrala’s beef is with me,’ said Jack, bristling. ‘Hell, they can send their assassin if they want. Good luck to him.’

Harold took a drag on his cigarette and blew a smoke ring at Gwen. ‘Have it your own way, dear boy. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

And with that Harold flicked away the cigarette with a sharp, reptilian movement of his fingers. Gwen watched it land in a flowerbed, and when she looked back Harold had disappeared. Completely.

‘Hey!’ she said.

‘Teleport,’ Jack said, checking the readings on his wrist-strap. He let out a hiss of impatience. ‘Show-off.’

LAST NIGHT

TWO

Rachel ‘Ray’ Banks hurried through the darkened streets of Cardiff. According to her watch it was nearly 4 a.m. There was absolutely no one else about, and the emptiness was starting to creep her out. She stopped at a deserted crossroads. The street lamps were on, the orange sodium glare reflecting on the ice-wet tarmac like night-time mirages. There was no one about. Not a soul. It was as if Ray had the entire city to herself.

It was seriously starting to feel a bit freaky now.

Maybe she should have taken Gillian’s advice and stayed on at the party. At least Ray would have had a place to crash for the night, even if it had meant fending off the more amorous – or drunk – partygoers. And it wasn’t a great sign when even Gillian’s advice sounded good.

‘Don’t tell me you’re going
already
?’ She recalled Gillian’s aghast expression quite clearly. Ray had explained – as patiently as she could when yelling over Lily Allen’s ‘Not Fair’ at full blast – that she had a lecture first thing in the morning and really ought to be leaving.

‘A
lecture
?’ Gillian appeared not to understand the word. And she was actually frowning. ‘First thing?’

‘Yes,’ Ray had said. ‘Heath Park at 10.30. I really want to go.’

Gillian now looked shocked. ‘But you can’t go
now
,’ she screamed. Ray could barely hear her. ‘It’s just getting good. And besides, you don’t want to be walking home alone. That’s
not
good.’

But Ray had always been strong-willed – some would have said stubborn – and there was nothing more guaranteed to make her do something than somebody telling her
not
to do it. Her parents had found that out at an early age – which, ultimately, was a good part of the reason why Ray had ended up studying Ecology at Cardiff University rather than working in her mother’s flower shop in Bristol.

She checked her watch again: 4.10 a.m. The streets were still empty, and she stopped to listen carefully. A bus or a taxi would be good right now. In the distance she thought she heard a car engine accelerating away; it sounded like the last person on Earth just leaving.

Alone, cold, lost, Ray walked on. She didn’t even know what direction she should go in. She thought she knew Cardiff quite well, but it all looked different at four in the morning and she guessed she was probably slightly drunk.

How else could she explain why she was so lost? The party had been in a house owned by another student’s parents who were away on holiday. There had been forty or fifty people in that house, with loads of booze, music, sex (probably) and the chance to emerge dazed and tired in the early hours of the morning. And then get hopelessly lost.

The house was somewhere around Cyncoed, she was pretty certain of that. Or was it Llanedeyrn? Her halls of residence were just off Colum Road but that might as well have been Glasgow from here.

Ray cursed herself for not leaving with Wynnie when she’d had the chance. Wynnie had left at half one. A sensible time. Wynnie would be home by now, probably asleep in a nice warm bed, an empty cup of cocoa on the floor.

Ray crossed a road called Carner Lane and cut through between a small row of semis to another avenue. If she followed the slope of the road down, she thought she would at least be heading back into the city centre. She could pick up a taxi on the way if necessary.

Twenty minutes later she was still lost, had still not seen or heard any sign of another living thing and was seriously starting to worry. She hurried past a small patch of scrubby grass surrounded by old, bent railings covered in rust.

Where was everyone? Just because it was 4.30-ish in the morning, and freezing cold, didn’t mean that everyone was tucked up in bed like Wynnie, surely? What about the shift workers? Police? Anyone?

Ray turned a corner at random, her trainers scuffing the tarmac with short, panicky steps. She was pretty scared now. She thought about phoning Gillian but, quite apart from the fact that Ray didn’t want to endure a drunken ‘I told you so’ conversation, Gillian was famously useless in a crisis. Ray felt she had to speak to
someone
, though, so she took out her mobile and dialled Wynnie instead.

The phone rang a few times and then switched to voicemail: ‘Wynnie. Call you back. Bye.’

Ray snapped the phone shut with a curse and cut across a square surrounded by a line of old, bare trees. There was a building up ahead – she couldn’t see it very clearly in the dark, but perhaps there would be a bus stop or something on the far side.

She cut quickly through the trees and then stopped in her tracks.

She had stumbled across some kind of derelict church – it was practically in ruins, surrounded by some trees and scrubby grass and cracked pavements.

And there were people here.

A dozen or so, standing silently in the gloom. They were wearing long coats and top hats. Some held walking sticks or canes. Something about the whole scene made Ray’s insides turn cold. Perhaps it was the clothes, which, on closer inspection, looked old and stained, with frayed hems and ragged sleeves. Their heads appeared to be wrapped in dark scarves and they were wearing sunglasses, which was odd at 4.30 in the morning. The lenses of the nearest man flashed in the streetlights as he turned to look at Ray.

She wanted to turn and run, she really did, but she just couldn’t move. Something made her stand and stare back at him.

His face was completely hidden by the filthy bandages wound all around his head. His eyes were concealed behind the glasses, but he seemed to be looking straight at her, almost through her. Ray felt her skin crawling. Then the man raised his arm – showing his hand to be encased in threadbare gloves mottled with greasy stains – and this seemed to be a signal for the others to move.

Because, most oddly, the men were all standing in two distinct lines, as if they were in some kind of a procession. The leading men, the ones holding the long, spear-tipped canes, began to march forward at a slow, steady pace.

And at that moment Ray saw the whole thing for what it was, in a moment of chilling clarity.

It was a funeral cortège. Because the final six men were carrying a long, glass-walled casket as if they were pallbearers.

And as it drew alongside, Ray could see the contents of the casket, illuminated by the harsh yellow street light above.

She stared, long and hard, unable to look away. Her heart was pounding in her chest and the contents of her stomach churned.

Then she turned and threw up on the pavement.

LAST CHANCE

THREE

His mouth was full of soil.

He’d been screaming, and the wet earth had gone straight in. He choked and tried to get up, but the weight of the dirt was too much. More soil poured down, stones and twigs bouncing off his skull and worms twisting around his face and neck.

He had to get out. He was lying in a grave for Christ’s sake, and he was being
buried alive
. He had to get out.

But the soil kept coming, and eventually he couldn’t see anything. The weight was incredible – cold, wet, heavy earth, pressing down on his face and chest like a giant heel grinding him deeper into the hole.

There was grit in his eyes and ears and he couldn’t even
move
now, let alone breathe. The dirt closed over his head, and for a while all he could hear was the muffled thump of each shovelful landing on top of him and the thick rush of blood in his head. He was going to die.

Again.

How long would it take this time? How long would it take to die – and how long would it take to
live
?

‘Jack?’