The Undertakers Gift (5 page)

‘But I don’t know anything about Torchwood, so there’s nothing for me to forget.’ She smiled. Then frowned. ‘Unless they’ve already got to me, of course.’

‘Good point. Maybe I should mention that to Nina.’ He stood up. ‘How are you feeling now, anyway?’

Ray sighed, thinking. ‘Better, I think. I keep getting these flashbacks though. The things I saw. I can’t seem to forget them.’

‘It’ll take time. Bound to. The images will fade, eventually. I’m sure of it.’

Ray wasn’t convinced. She rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms.

‘I dunno. This doesn’t feel like something I’ll ever forget. It’s right there in my head, every minute. It’s not like a memory. . . It’s more like a mental link or something. A direct, permanent connection to that moment in time and space.’

Wynnie raised his eyebrows. ‘OK, now you’re sounding weird even by my standards. Drink the tea and let’s go.’

Ray nodded, but in her mind’s eye she kept seeing the pallbearers, their bandaged faces turning to look at her. The glass casket.

The thing inside.

Nothing was going to make it go away.

SEVEN

Gwen was driving the SUV back to the Hub. ‘This Undertaker’s Gift. . . ‘She shot a fast, questioning look at Jack in the passenger seat. ‘You know what it is, don’t you?’

Jack shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. If it’s what I think it is, then we’re in trouble.’

‘Well, I sort of guessed it wouldn’t be good news.’

Jack’s eyes were cloudy again. ‘It’s been a Torchwood rumour for as long as I can remember. The people who ran Torchwood in the old days – and I mean the
old
days – used to talk about it in whispers. It was one of those things we were always supposed to be on the lookout for, according to Gerald Kneale. Thankfully, it never came my way.’

‘Until now,’ Gwen said.

‘Maybe.’ Jack pulled a face. ‘The Undertaker’s Gift is almost mythical – I was never convinced it really existed. It was the bogeyman. A threat that was never substantiated.’

‘Hokrala seemed very sure about it.’

‘Well, they would. It’s their job to be very sure about everything. That’s their problem – no creativity, no room for inspired guesswork. Hopeless gamblers.’

‘What
is
the Undertaker’s Gift, then?’ asked Ianto. ‘According to legend?’

‘It was generally considered to be some kind of planetary threat – the end of the world. The big bad daddy of all atomic bombs – at least that’s what we used to think, back in the fifties, until we realised it was more than that. A whole lot more.’

Jack fell silent for a moment and Gwen glanced across at him. He was looking unusually drawn; although he was keeping his tone light, she guessed that he was trying to disguise how rattled he was.

‘I think it’s some kind of temporal fusion device,’ he said. ‘Literally, a Time Bomb. I’ve got no proof of that, by the way. It’s just a theory. But it’s just about the only thing that could turn this planet inside out – if it was strategically detonated near the Rift, it would split the local time-space continuum wide open. Earth would be wiped out in a temporal spasm that would leave the entire solar system irradiated with fast-decay chronon fallout. Not good.’

‘But who would want to do a thing like that?’ Gwen wondered.

‘It ain’t a friendly universe,’ Jack said. ‘There’s folks out there who are queuin’ up to have a pop at planet Earth.’

‘And why’s it called the Undertaker’s Gift?’ asked Ianto.

‘I’ve no idea. This is the whole problem: not enough hard information, too much speculation. Fear of the unknown does the rest.’

‘What can we do?’ Gwen asked, trying to think practically. ‘Maybe if we could find it. . .’

‘It’s never been found,’ Jack reminded her. ‘It’s never even been proven to exist.’

‘Could it be a bluff?’ Ianto asked.

‘Can we take that risk?’ Gwen replied.

Ianto held up the Hokrala envelope. ‘Looks like the writ will have to take a back seat.’

‘Let’s not ignore it,’ Jack said. ‘It could tell us something. Run it through the translator when you get back to the Hub, see what they’ve got on us. Knowing Hokrala Corp, it’ll be about five hundred miles of red tape but there might be something in there that can point us in the right direction. It’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got to go on.’

‘And to think I was hoping for a couple of days off,’ Gwen said ruefully. She took a deep breath. ‘Rhys is staying over in Gloucester and I was hoping to join him there if I had the chance. . .’

Jack shook his head. ‘I can’t afford to let you go just now. We need to get on top of this Undertaker’s Gift thing as well as everything else, just in case. Get on to it, Gwen – use those cop instincts. Run some scans for anything that might be a temporal fusion device – if it’s really here it’s bound to be in the vicinity of the Rift.’

‘Lucky old Cardiff.’

‘And you need to keep checking on our guest in Cell One. See if you can’t get him to talk any – he’s come through the Rift only recently, so he might know something.’

Gwen thought about the alien life form that had been sitting in the Hub’s premier holding cell for the last week. ‘He hasn’t said a word so far,’ she argued. ‘He hasn’t even
moved
. What makes you think I’ll have any luck?’

‘Use your feminine wiles on him.’

Gwen never really knew if Jack was winding her up when he spoke like this. He came from the far future but sometimes he sounded so old-fashioned. ‘Jack,’ she said with as much patience as she could muster, ‘we are talking about a big blob of electric jelly. What good are feminine wiles?’

‘I’ve asked the same question a thousand times,’ smiled Jack. He pointed out of the windscreen. ‘You can drop me off here.’

‘Here?’ Puzzled, Gwen pulled the SUV over by a row of derelict shops. The dark mouth of an alleyway yawned at them.

‘Not a very nice area,’ commented Ianto.

‘There are no nice areas in our line of work,’ said Jack darkly. He got out and shut the door behind him.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going fishing. See what I can find. Catch you guys later.’

And with that he was gone, striding into the shadows of the alleyway with a flare of his greatcoat.

‘I hate it when he does that,’ muttered Gwen. ‘He so likes to be the centre of attention.’

Ianto frowned. ‘He has been acting a little strange lately. Distracted. Mysterious.’

‘You got that too?’

‘Some might even say grumpy.’

‘Some might say Bashful, Sleepy and Sneezy. But I say
worried
.’ Gwen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Something’s on Captain Jack’s mind, and I wish I knew what it was.’

EIGHT

The cat arched its back, ears flattened, fangs bared. It stood rigid, hackles raised. Its tail had expanded to a fantastic size and in the cat’s own mind it looked huge, ferocious, terrifying. Nothing would dare to attack it now.

Three seconds later it was dead, seized by the throat and shaken so hard its neck snapped like a twig. The limp body was then hurled contemptuously against a wall and ignored.

‘No fun!’ squawked a voice. ‘No fun! Too quick!’

A heavy, squat creature with dull, warty skin scuttled over to the corpse and devoured it in a single wet gulp.

Another joined it, bounding along on outsized, disjointed legs. Gimlet eyes stared in the shadows, nostrils twitching at the sweet scent of fresh blood. Both creatures resembled enormous frogs. For a moment they sat and stared at each other, utterly immobile.

‘Make ’em fight!’ snarled the voice. ‘Make ’em fight!’

The nearest toad received a hefty kick and it jumped in the general direction of its mate, whose mouth gaped open in a reflexive hiss, showing rows of shark-like teeth still smeared with blood and cat fur.

‘No good, man!’ complained the voice. ‘Fight! Fight, you little runts!’

There were two of them, wearing hoodies and dark, waterproof coats with baggy tracksuit pants and new trainers. Here, at the bottom of the alleyway, it was impossible to see their faces.

‘Hi, boys,’ said Jack Harkness.

The hoodies swung around. The toads growled at their feet.

‘Now that’s what I call antisocial behaviour,’ Jack said. ‘Don’t you guys know that pitbullfrogs are illegal in this time zone?’

There was a glint of streetlight on metal as one of the thugs produced a knife.

Jack raised the Webley. ‘Put the blade down, kid, I’m not here to play games.’

But the thug took a step forward, dropping into a fighting crouch, knife extended. As the owner moved out of the shadows his face became visible beneath the hood of his jacket: cold, angry eyes glared out from glistening, crimson flesh and a multitude of spines quivered around an ugly, puckered mouth.

‘Human scum!’ it hissed.

Jack sighed. ‘Great. Just what the world needs – Blowfish hoodies.’

‘Stick ’im, Kerko!’ ordered the second hoodie, and the kid with the knife lunged obediently. Jack stepped inside the thrusting blade, cracked his pistol against the side of the Blowfish’s blubbery head and then threw him backwards into his friend.

Jack picked up the fallen knife as the Blowfish tumbled to the ground. Beyond them, the two pitbullfrogs were getting excited by the violence.

One of the Blowfish yelled, ‘Kill ’im!’ and the frogs lurched down the alleyway towards Jack, fangs bared. As the nearest prepared to leap, Jack twisted, shooting from the hip. The beast was flipped backwards, spraying what little brains it had across the alley like a bad sneeze.

The other pitbullfrog let out a squeal of alarm and bounded away into the darkness.

‘Shit!’ exclaimed one of the Blowfish angrily. ‘Those things
cost
, man! You lousy—’

Jack pointed the revolver at the Blowfish and it fell silent. But in that second Jack had taken his eyes off Kerko. Enraged, the Blowfish launched himself at Jack and they crashed to the floor in a heap.

Jack lost his grip on the Webley and suddenly the Blowfish’s hands were around his neck, squeezing hard.

‘Kill ’im, Kerko!’ the other urged.

Jack swung the Blowfish over onto the pavement and butted him with savage force. There was a crunch of bone, and Kerko went limp.

The other thug leapt onto Jack’s shoulders, but it was a clumsy attempt and Jack threw him off easily. The Blowfish hit the metal shutters of a nearby shop with a clatter but was otherwise unhurt.

Jack was on him straight away. He pulled him to his feet and then punched the Blowfish hard enough to send him staggering out into the street.

‘You’re pretty tough for a fish,’ said Jack, grabbing him by the scruff. ‘But I’ve been handling your sort for over a century now. Give it up, kid.’

‘Go to hell!’ spat the fish. ‘Torchwood filth!’

He struggled and squirmed, swinging his fists. Jack, suddenly tired and angry with this piece of alien flotsam, pushed him roughly away. The thug stumbled out into the road and into the path of an oncoming truck.

It was a skip lorry, carrying a heavy load. The driver, thickset and bald, was talking on his mobile. Jack watched in mute horror as the truck’s big wheels gobbled the Blowfish up in a single, crunching mouthful, chewed it to a pulp and excreted it from the rear axle. The remains were dragged along the road until there was nothing left but mangled clothes, bones and a long smear of blood.

The lorry carried on without stopping; the driver hadn’t even noticed. Jack didn’t know whether to be relieved or appalled. He watched the red tail lights turn the corner and then stood and got his breath back in silence.

Kerko was crawling out of the alley. There was blood dribbling from a split in his forehead where Jack had butted him.

‘You murdering bastard,’ gasped the Blowfish. He pointed at the long, wet stripe of gore on the tarmac. His voice was choking. ‘That was my little brother!’

‘It was an accident,’ Jack said lamely. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen.’

Kerko climbed slowly to his feet. ‘Yeah, sure. That’s what Torchwood does, innit? Kill you and make it look like an accident, yeah?’ He spat a gob of dark blood at Jack. ‘Murderer!’

‘OK, that’s enough!’ Jack grabbed the Blowfish and spun him around, slammed him up against the wall. Then he jerked one of his arms hard up between his shoulders. ‘You’re comin’ in.’

The handcuff clicked on and Kerko snarled. ‘Taking me back to your HQ? What for? Why don’t you just kill me now?’

‘That’s not how I do things,’ Jack growled.

‘Tell that to my brother, arsehole!’

Jack pressed his lips close to Kerko’s ear. ‘It’s too late for him. But it’s not too late for you.’

NINE

Gwen sat at her workstation and shivered.
All this steel and concrete
, she thought, looking across the water at the mirrored tower rising up through the cavernous ceiling.
Half of Torchwood’s funding must go on heating bills.