Just as the lad was about to reach Jack, a long-legged girl collided with him. Her blonde hair coiled like snakes around her in the water. Her tight red one-piece swimsuit was the same colour as the boy’s shorts, and Gwen knew suddenly that she was another lifeguard.
‘Leave him,’ said the girl in red. Her tone was deliberate and her voice was breathy, yet clearly audible above the sound of the pool. She lifted one hand out of the water and pushed down on the other lifeguard’s head. ‘Leave him. He’s mine.’
The young male lifeguard shook her off and pushed his head back to the surface, blowing air through his pursed lips and scattering water with a rapid shake of his head. He pressed up against the woman, forcing her away so that she slowly fell backwards, the swimsuit material stretched tight over her breasts.
The two guards continued to jostle together in the pool, a leisurely exchange of shoves and nudges that was more like a ballet than a fight. Beside them, Jack’s face floated just below the surface, his eyes and mouth wide.
Gwen choked. She couldn’t draw breath. It was as though she was underwater, unable or afraid to breathe in. She wanted to plunge into the pool, drag herself across to the middle and bring Jack to the surface. But her legs were leaden; she could not even slide her bare feet over the cracked blue tiles. Her hands spasmed, and her fingers locked, immovable around the barrier rail.
The thin-faced man stared down from the balcony. He had stood to watch the commotion in the pool. No, Gwen realised, his eyes were fixed on her. ‘Owen Harper,’ she said.
‘It’s Doctor Owen Harper, the thin-faced man called to her. ‘Actually.’
Gwen cursed her paralysed legs, and tried to lunge over the barrier into the water. Her arms had no strength. The crowds continued their unheeding passage around the drowning man. Gwen screamed wildly at the lifeguards. They paused to study her incuriously.
‘Save him!’ Her shrill cry echoed around the swimming pool.
She woke up abruptly, surfacing from beneath her sheets with a wail of misery and fear.
‘Bloody hell!’ Rhys fumbled around on the bedside cabinet, and scattered books and pens on the floor before he managed to locate the light switch. He propped himself up on his elbows. ‘What’s the matter, love?’
Gwen found that her arms weren’t paralysed any more, so she threw them around her boyfriend and started to sob.
She let him clasp her tightly, quietly, until she slowly calmed down. He was good like that, Rhys. He knew when to talk and when to shut up and just say nothing.
She knew she couldn’t explain it, so she lied to him that she’d already forgotten what the nightmare was.
Rhys squeezed her again. ‘It must have been the rain rattling the window. Sorry, love, I know I should’ve fixed it, and now with the storm and everything…’
‘No, no,’ she mumbled. ‘S’all right.’
Rhys held her at arm’s length to look at her. Jerked his head towards the window. ‘And it’s boiling in here, isn’t it? Maybe that rain’s not so bad, I can open the thing a bit and let some air in?’ He slipped out of bed and ambled over to the window. When he cracked open the top pane, Gwen could hear the steady susurration of rain on the pavement below.
Rhys padded through to the bathroom. He left the door ajar, and raised his voice so that she could hear him over the sound of the running tap. He spoke in short bursts as he brushed his teeth. ‘Every time my gran knew a storm was coming in. She’d cover up all the mirrors in the house with bedsheets. White bedsheets. It was like her terrace house was going into storage. Wouldn’t get unwrapped until the lightning had gone away.’
Gwen smiled to herself, not quite sure if she was amused or sad. She knew Rhys was just talking cheerful nonsense to cajole her out of the fearful mood, to help her completely forget whatever it was that had upset her. But his anecdote reminded her of that alien radiance sprite Torchwood had trapped a few weeks ago in a mirrored box. Toshiko had folded up the reflective surfaces and thrown a dark cloth over it. Would nothing be simple any more, Gwen thought to herself. Maybe she’d never again have normal points of reference for the stories that Rhys told about his family, or about what had happened to him at the office, or something that he and Banana Boat had laughed at in the pub. She could never talk about her own work, and lovely Rhys just didn’t question it because he accepted ‘Special Ops’ was something she could never discuss. He could tell her about Barry’s latest computer cock-up, or the naivety of the young secretary he’d just hired, or the latest crazy diet theory expounded by Lucy in his office. But Gwen never made up any of her own stories to exchange about Special Ops colleagues. She knew from her own police work that it was too easy to get lost in those kinds of fabrications, once you got started.
‘Look at you!’ Rhys was standing in the doorway. ‘You’re on the wrong side of the bed. I got up a bit earlier for a wee and a glass of water — all that Tiger we had with dinner, it just went right through me. When I got back, you’d rolled over onto my side. That’s why I had a bit of trouble with your lamp there. Sorry, couldn’t quite see what was what.’ He stooped down by her side of the bed and started to pick up the books and pens and papers he’d accidentally scattered on the floor. ‘You’ve had quite a few restless nights, haven’t you? Since starting this new job. What’s all that about?’ He laughed. ‘Guilty conscience?’
‘Oh, hark at you,’ Gwen retorted. ‘Guilty conscience about my new job? That’s your mate Gaz talking, that is. Like you never have nightmares?’
‘I always sleep well. The sleep of the just.’
‘The sleep of the shagged, more like,’ she told him. ‘Your post-coital coma is what you mean, Rhys.’
He dumped some of the papers on the bedside cabinet, leaned over, and attempted to snog her.
‘Not fair!’ she protested, laughing, as she smelled the Colgate. ‘You’ve brushed your teeth, and I bet I’ve got bog breath.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Well I do,’ she told him. ‘And besides, I need the loo now.’
Rhys stood up to let her out of the bed. ‘I’ll tidy up the rest of this mess I’ve made while you have your wee, then.’
Gwen tiptoed over the cold bathroom lino and left him to sort out the strewn papers. Since joining Torchwood, she’d had restless nights because she woke up with thoughts and ideas and then stayed awake fretting that she wouldn’t remember them the next day. She’d taken to scribbling them on shop receipts and envelopes, and eventually in a small notebook. She trusted Rhys not to nosey around in her stuff, but didn’t trust herself not to lose it, so it was written in abbreviations and codes. Inevitably, that meant her night-time jottings were either in indecipherable handwriting or, when examined in the cold light of morning, just tired rambling nonsense.
‘Is this a new mobile number?’ Rhys called through to her.
She emerged back into their room, still clutching her toothbrush. She wiped one wet hand on her nightie, and took the Post-it note from him.
‘Scribbled out in a bit of a hurry,’ he observed, ‘and not your handwriting. That says “Gwen”, and a number… is that a zero or a six?’
Gwen knew that the scrawled word was “Owen”. He’d shoved his mobile number at her, while giving her some half-hearted cheesy chat-up line. She’d told him to piss off. It was a joke anyway, a gesture, because all the Torchwood phones had everyone’s number programmed in on speed dial. Even so, when she’d emptied the pockets that evening before hanging her jacket in the wardrobe, she’d found the Post-it note still there.
‘Message from the office,’ she told Rhys. Gwen took it with her back to the bathroom, sticking it on the mirror while she had a pee. As she sat, she thought about the dream. Jack in the pool. Owen watching from the balcony.
She got back to the bed, and stooped close to Rhys to get a proper snog. He was sprawled comfortably across his own side, mouth wide open, taking regular breaths.
Gwen listened to Rhys breathing. She went back and retrieved the
Post-it from the bathroom mirror. Tucked it into her notebook. Put the notebook on the bedside cabinet. Slipped back into bed with Rhys, and switched off the lamp. Lay in the dark, listening to the ceaseless rain.
TEN
Russian roulette was definitely more interesting with real people, decided Owen. And playing it in the Torchwood Hub gave it an added frisson of excitement. There was the danger of being caught by Jack or Gwen or Toshiko, which was just as exhilarating as knowing that he risked getting his brains splattered across his own desk. Though that would be harder to explain than it would be to clear up afterwards.
He sniffed the air in the room, expecting his nostrils to fill with the scent of cordite and freshly sprayed blood. Beside him, slumped against the base of the Asteroids arcade game, the latest gun victim stared sightlessly at the Hub’s high ceiling. It was Kvasir the Viking. One way or another, at someone else’s hand or his own, that dumb Scandinavian was always going to wind up dead.
Owen kicked the dead man’s fur-clad leg. ‘Get up, Kvasir,’ he told him. ‘You’re not as smart as they told me you were. Try again with your next life. I bet you can’t lose four times in a row.’
The corpse blinked twice, rolled over and returned to the table.
After another couple of games, the novelty of combining elements of the Second Reality game with the physical contents of the Hub started to pall for Owen. For the first hour, it had amused him to run the 3-D projectors in the Hub’s games area, but he soon found it distracting to navigate around the solid real-life objects, and a lot duller than exploring the unlimited, uninhibited worlds created by other people inside Second Reality. At one stage, he checked his watch to see that it was already approaching 1 a.m. on Sunday morning. After that, he put the helmet-mounted display back on his head and immersed himself once more in the startling clarity of the images on the stereoscopic screens.
He was keen to meet new characters, in the hope that they were also new people in the real world. You could never tell, because one person might have several avatars in the game. Penny Pasteur had already proved a disappointment. Remembering Toshiko’s words earlier, he’d gone to the Wumpaam district where a Mage called Candlesmith had sold him a pair of sunglasses that showed you what the person’s fleshspace name was. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they didn’t work on Candlesmith, but when Owen used them on Penny Pasteur it revealed her in real life to be Donald McGurk Jr., logged in to the game from Minneapolis. And while Donald wasn’t the hairy-arsed fifty-year-old that Toshiko had speculated about, when confronted with his true identity he confessed that he was a thirty-two-year-old Star Trek fan who secretly wanted to be Lieutenant Uhura.
Owen abandoned ‘Penny’ back at the Lunatic Fringe, making good use of an unfortunate accident when she had fallen into a huge pile of rotting fruit that had mysteriously appeared in the street outside the barber-shop. Within seconds, Owen had vanished around the corner and lost himself amid the glittering skyscrapers of the uptown Millennium Capitol, heedless to the wails from Penny and the screeches of the pteranodons that had swooped down from nowhere to peck at her where she lay in the street like a tempting hors d’oeuvre.
More promising was Egg Magnet. In his guise as Glendower Broadsword, Owen picked him up outside the Surer Square, a tapas bar near the centre of Millennium Capitol. He decided that Egg was the most stylish person in the place, because he was dancing on the table-top, and eating fire rather than the queso con anchoas. This endeared him to Owen, if not to the waiters, so he intercepted Egg as he was being thrown out into the street.
They danced diagonally across the cobbled streets of the food district. Owen considered the newcomer’s brilliant white trouser suit and startlingly bright silver hair.
‘What kind of name is “Egg Magnet”?’ he asked.
‘Name of a band,’ Egg replied. ‘How about you? Did your parents read a lot of Tolkien?’
Owen considered his Glendower Broadsword outfit. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit New Zealand. But I never got further than dressing like this. It’s a hobbit I find hard to break.’
Egg Magnet pulled a face. Literally. He seized hold of his cheeks and stretched them like putty into an exaggerated expression of dismay.
‘Sorry,’ grinned Owen. He reached over and smoothed out Egg’s distorted features with soft pressure on the skin. Left his hands in position, gently holding the other man’s cheeks and considering the possibilities. He’d experimented with Second Reality sex sessions in the past, though that was just getting other characters on the screen to snog and shag. He wondered what the possibilities were with his sight and hearing totally immersed in the game like this. Or with the tangible feedback from the sensors in the data-gloves. A recent copy of The Lancet had included a joke article about cybersex, and involved some equipment described as ‘technodildonics’. He doubted Toshiko would think that was research worth pursuing for Torchwood. Though he imagined he’d have enjoyed describing the hardware interface to her.
‘Do you want to get a drink somewhere?’ he asked Egg. ‘Or do you prefer to curl up with a nice cup of tea?’
Egg gently pulled his face away from Owen, chuckling. The movement scattered his silver hair around his shoulders. ‘I had a boyfriend who always said that. I’d tell him, “No, I’ll tell you what, I’ll have a really average cup of tea, thanks. Unless you can do me a crappy cup of tea.” I do love a crappy cup of tea, don’t you?’
Owen laughed too. It was something he’d said himself in the past.
Egg danced off across the street and up a connecting flight of steps to a raised area of shops and restaurants. He peered over his shoulder, checking that Owen wasn’t left behind. Owen chased up the steps after Egg, taking two or three at a time to catch up.
‘You have a lovely laugh,’ Owen told him. ‘What else did your boyfriend say that made you laugh like that?’
Egg sat on a low wall outside a restaurant, and patted it to indicate Owen should join him. ‘Like you, he said he wanted to travel. But he’d never go to the North Pacific, because he didn’t trust Hawaiians…’
Owen broke in, laughing again: ‘…because the “i”s are too close together!’ He looked at Egg thoughtfully for a moment. There was something very familiar about him. Owen closed his eyes and listened to Egg talk, trying to concentrate on the words and not his appearance.
‘When we met outside the Surer Square, I thought that you’d be S.I.T.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Owen, knowing already.
‘Safe in taxis,’ Egg said. He indicated Owen’s clothing. ‘The whole medieval thing going on here, I didn’t think you were looking to pick anyone up. And then I started to think you might be a gay man. Dressed up like that, with the false-looking boobs and everything. Not that that’s a problem,’ Egg added hurriedly. There was a pause which felt like he was pondering this. ‘Though I did meet one strange woman earlier who kept asking me to open hailing frequencies. Do you think that’s some sort of code?’
‘Don’t even go there,’ said Owen. He had taken the Mage’s sunglasses out of his pocket, and put them on to look at Egg.
Egg chose exactly the same moment to leap abruptly to his feet. He stared at his watch. ‘Oh God, no! My shift’s due to start. Sorry, gotta go.’ He offered Owen a theatrical shrug. ‘Laters, mate.’ And with this, he twisted on the spot and spiralled out of existence.
Owen stared at the empty space where Egg had been. Only it wasn’t Egg, he now knew. The sunglasses had confirmed his growing suspicion. The text floating in the air around the avatar’s head had revealed him to be [email protected], connected to Second Reality with an IP address in Cardiff.
The name should have given it away earlier, even before the coincidences of what had been said. Egg Magnet. Megan Tegg.
She was the girlfriend he’d walked out on in London six years ago. What was Dr Megan Tegg doing in Cardiff?
ELEVEN
Someone was shaking him, pushing on his shoulder. The instinct was to lash out with hi
s elbow. He resisted that temptation while he tried to orient himself.
Owen was still wearing the helmet-mounted display, and his head rested on the keyboard of his work station. When he lifted his head, the image displayed by the helmet didn’t change: it was the two-dimensional screensaver, which told him in stark digital numbers that the time was 05.58.
Oh shit. He’d dozed off while playing Second Reality. After a period of inaction, the game had obviously disconnected him and then his computer screensaver had kicked in on timer.
He struggled out of the helmet. The same screensaver on his desktop computer screen clicked over to 05.59. The rest of the room was in shadows, the main lights not lit and most of the other terminal screens still switched off.
When Owen’s eyes adjusted to the contrast, he realised it was Ianto who’d woken him by pushing his shoulder. It wasn’t like him to touch Owen, to touch any of them really. The lad could throw the Torchwood SUV into a hairpin turn, knock a Weevil down with a well-placed blow, and run a hundred metres like Christian Malcolm. But he wasn’t the sort to put a comforting arm around someone or punch them playfully on the arm, and he’d die rather than hug you. Ianto never gave a second look to Gwen or Toshiko. And Jack was always hitting on him, so he was probably gay, hiding in the closet with the lights off and hoping no one could hear him breathing.
Ianto looked at Owen sheepishly. ‘I didn’t think anyone was in this early. I thought I’d better wake you before…’ He trailed off and looked over his shoulder. From elsewhere, in the R amp;R area, came the distinctive sound of Jack whooping with delight to the sound-effect noises of a handgun.
‘Yeah, right. Sorry,’ Owen muttered.
Ianto gave him his serious look. ‘You don’t want to get addicted to this, do you?’
Another Life t-1 Page 8
