by James Goss
The picture changes to a warmly setting sun watched by a couple on a beach. And then fades to black.
The lights come on, together with a slide advertising the wide range of gnomes available in the duty-free shop. People stand up. The old couple look at each other, and squeeze each other’s hands. The beautiful people at the back have already left.
‘Well,’ thinks Ianto, munching on his cold popcorn, ‘that was the fishiest thing in the Irish Sea.’
‘And then?’ asked Gwen.
‘I signed up, and had a lovely day sightseeing,’ said Ianto. ‘I think I took loads of photos on my phone. The weather was a bit drab, but the girls were great fun.’
‘The girls? Lucky Debbie and Easy Kerry.’ Jack’s mockery was fond and only a little bit jealous. ‘Let me guess. You went drinking?’
Ianto shook his head. ‘Actually, we went to the zoo, a nice little tea shop, and Kerry found some rare editions she’d been hunting after for ages in an antiquarian bookstore.’
It’s late afternoon in a Dublin pub with a great view of the rain. Ianto reels. Lucky Debbie grabs hold of him. ‘Easy, tiger!’ She ruffles his hair and helps him sit down. All around him, the wooden panels of the Dublin bar start to spin slowly.
Ianto shakes his head, and scowls. ‘I’m tired.’ He is much drunker than he intended to be.
Debbie grins and pinches his cheek. ‘You pass out, and Kerry will pounce. I’ve experience of that girl. Don’t give in to weakness.’
Ianto runs a hand through his hair. ‘Debbie, I’m hammered. I’m trying to do really important work here, and my head’s pounding. I have no idea what was in the meal we’ve just eaten, but three fingers of scotch aren’t helping anything. I just want a nap.’
Kerry staggers back from the ladies, giggling. There is a small trail of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe. She sits down opposite Ianto with a whumpf! and then pitches gently into an uneasy sleep on an open packet of pork scratchings.
Ianto squints a little to bring the table into focus. Spread across it are the slumbering remains of Debbie’s hen party. Through a forest of half-finished pints and abandoned pies he can see Debbie, who winks at him. ‘You’ll be fine, doll. What is this top secret mishun? You really a spy?’
Ianto shakes his head. ‘Oh no. I’m just the office boy, really. But… you know… I’m keeping an eye out. For a friend. Well, not really a friend – more a bastard, really. But he died. And it’s easy to remember someone fondly if they’re dead. Especially when they died twice, if you’re counting. Twice dead bastard.’ He giggles.
Debbie is nodding with the slightly glassy look of someone who isn’t even listening.
Ianto ventures on. ‘And Owen thought there was something wrong about the boat. And he was right – I think there’s some alien medical procedure taking place on that boat. And that’s never good. And I’m supposed to stay sober on a mission. But then I think I’m being followed. So, I decide to blend in by getting drunk with you. Which may not have been the wisest thing. So it’s Ianto Jones, secret agent, saving the Cardiff Ferry from an alien invasion, just a little bit legless. So yes, I guess in many ways it’s oh dear.’ He takes an ill-advised swig of his pint and grimaces. ‘Oh, this is going down like sick.’ He rests the glass on the table hurriedly. ‘Anyway – I’m very important. I’m saving Cardiff.’
Debbie nods again and pats his hand. ‘Phil was shagging Kerry a couple of months ago,’ she says, quietly.
Many hours later, they stagger onto the boat for the journey back. Kerry is throwing up into a bin to the disgust of customs officials. Debbie has a spring in her step and flashing plastic devil horns in her hair. Ianto is carrying a traffic cone.
He makes it back to his tiny little orange cabin and slumps down on the lower bunk, the traffic cone resting unsteadily by him. He sinks his head in his hands. ‘I am so hammered,’ he thinks sadly. ‘I’ve had a brilliant weekend, clearly. I haven’t let my hair down in ages. But I haven’t really saved the world.’
He wraps his arms round the traffic cone, and settles down for a sleep. At no point does he even notice the envelope resting on the floor.
The knock on the door wakes him. It is night and the throbbing of the engines pounds in his head. ‘Whu?’ he manages, unsteadily getting to his feet. He is praying it isn’t Debbie. Or, dear god forbid, Kerry.
Instead it is a small, dapper little man in a steward’s uniform. He has a drooping orange moustache that makes him look pleasantly like Asterix. ‘Sir,’ says the man with the perfect English of a Norwegian. ‘You are awaited in the Kielty cabin.’
‘Ah,’ says Ianto. ‘Thank you. Do you mind if I…?’ He gestures to the sink, where he splashes some cold water on his face and straightens his tie. Oh god, he feels awful. He grabs the complimentary bottle of water from the washstand and starts to drink it as they walk. His mouth tastes terrible as though… oh no. Has he been smoking? He really can’t remember. Lisa will kill him.
As they walk his brain does three bits of thinking. The first pieces of thinking it has done for almost twenty-four hours. The first thought is ‘Kielty’ – the name was mentioned in the newspaper story. Ross Kielty had apparently been a passenger, and spoke in glowing terms of the treatment. In the same article… something else familiar. The picture. He’d seen someone else in the picture. He tries to remember who. But it now seems obvious that the whole Hope Boat is an elaborate cover for something else.
The steward leads him to a door and then melts away. Ianto sadly swallows the last of the bottled water and knocks. A quite beautiful woman opens the door and smiles kindly.
‘Mr Jones?’ she says, holding out her hand. Her handshake is easy and strong. ‘Thank you for coming. My name is Christine. Do take a seat.’
He steps into the cabin – which seems to be the ferry’s equivalent of a stateroom. It is still the size of a small caravan, but feels almost palatial.
The woman, amazingly dressed and terribly calm, sits down opposite him, and smiles. She is half of the couple who had come into the cinema late. She is professionally friendly. ‘Now, briefly tell me what can we do for you?’
‘Ah,’ says Ianto. ‘Can you cure my hangover?’
Christine’s laugh is a sharp little rattle. ‘Oh, we can cure a lot more than that, Mr Jones. What was it that you came to see us about? Surely something more serious?’
Ianto sighs. ‘I don’t know. I read about the treatments offered on this boat, and I wondered… well. You see, in the last year I’ve lost my girlfriend and two friends. They all died. And everyone thinks very sad, but move on. But I can’t. I’ll be at work, and I’ll remember a conversation I had with her, or a row with Owen, just a little thing, and I’ll be stuck. I want that to stop. I know you can cure my body – but can you cure my mind? Can you make it so that I never think about any of them ever again?’
Christine reaches out a hand that brushes his lightly. Her smile is wan and melancholy. ‘Oh, Mr Jones. I’m sorry for your loss… deeply and sincerely so.’ A heavy breath, and then more warmth in the smile. ‘But you’ll be pleased to hear that we can help.’
‘Really?’ Ianto, just for an instant, thinks how nice it would be – never to think about Lisa back in his flat. To be able to water Owen’s plants without remembering him. Or dismantling Tosh’s complicated analyses of alien technology – studies that would never be finished, secrets that would never be unlocked. Just forget about them and move on.
Christine leans forward. ‘It won’t take long, and I promise it won’t hurt.’
‘Will it be now?’
She taps his wrist again. ‘So eager! But no – we prefer to have a pre-treatment meeting. Just to screen people, to make sure they’re really happy to take part and that they understand everything. And, also, there is the small matter of payment up front.’ Her smile assures him that, if it were up to her, there wouldn’t be such a thing as payment.
‘Oh, of course!’ Ianto has the bank details of a Torchwood holding acc
ount. He passes them over, and she hands him a little slip of paper, discreetly folded in half. He lifts it up, and looks at the amount.
For a second he forgets how tired and drunk he is and instead stares aghast at the figure on the slip of paper. These people could clearly charge anything they wanted. He guesses running a ferry as a disguise can’t come cheap. But still – this is…
He manages a rueful smile. ‘It’ll be worth it in the long run.’
‘Of course,’ Christine lays a reassuring hand around his shoulder. ‘Once these bank details have cleared, we’ll contact you later tonight with a slot for treatment. It should only take a quarter of an hour. Shouldn’t hold up your fun with the hen party!’ She nudges his arm and laughs warmly. Ianto returns her smile weakly. She’s just confirmed that he’s been watched closely ever since he got on the ship.
‘What do you use?’ he asks, suddenly.
Christine doesn’t even look startled. Her voice has an easy, practised flow to it.
‘There are various advanced gene therapies that have been developed which, for one reason or another, just aren’t ever going to be practical for conventional medical care to offer. Too expensive for the NHS, impossible to obtain through other channels. My husband and I have found a way of making these therapies available easily. We use a method of delivery that’s tailored to each subject. Our primary concerns are your health and well-being. We wouldn’t proceed if there was any risk to you, or any chance of the procedure failing. You are in safe hands.’
‘Well,’ thinks Ianto. ‘That was all guff. Deliberately reassuring flannel.’
He makes a face. ‘But are there any injections? I’ve always hated those.’
Christine nods. ‘Oh, me too! But rest assured – this is far less invasive and far more effective. We don’t even need to give you an anaesthetic. Less fuss than a filling. Can you believe it?’
Right, thought Ianto. That does it – they’ve definitely nicked something alien. Miracle alien cures are never good.
He tries to leave her cabin without looking furtive and strides down the corridor, fingering his phone. No signal. He waits round the corner and then, when all is quiet, slips past Christine’s cabin to the one next door, and listens quietly at the door. He can hear a man’s soothing tones and a woman crying quietly. He stands back in the shadows and waits.
Eventually the door opens, and the very handsome man who’d been with Christine stands on the threshold, ushering two figures out. It is the old couple he’d noticed earlier. They are clasping each other and smiling. The old woman has tears running down her smiling cheeks.
‘Now, you’ve nothing to worry about – just go and have a nice little lie-down, and by the time we pull in to harbour, you should notice some dramatic improvements. Just relax and feel the Parkinson’s melt away. No, don’t thank me any more – just settle back and enjoy the next few years together.’
The woman turns and grips Ross Kielty in a fierce embrace. She starts to cry again. Her husband gently takes her shoulders and leads her away. Ianto can hear them laughing as they walk off.
Ross stands on the threshold, smiling. He is holding something small and blue in his hands. And then turns back into the room and closes the door.
Curing Parkinson’s? Oh dear.
Ianto is nervous on the deck. There’s a chill in the air and he’s not sure if he’s been followed. But there is definitely something up. He walks towards the bar and can see people spilling out of it onto the deck. He can still hear little gusts of music from the bar as people push through the doors. Everyone is standing, looking out to sea, or pointing vaguely with their camera phones.
He glances out, trying to see what they can see – and all he notices is the distant, distant glow of Cardiff, and then higher up, a dancing spot of light, like a shooting star, but one that slices across the sky towards them, only to vanish momentarily before sparkling up again.
‘It’s the Northern Lights!’ he hears someone shout, only to hear them laughed down. Gradually, with muttering, gasping, camera snapping and moaning they realise that the boat is surrounded by a perfect circle of fog, a fog that blots out Cardiff and the stars, just leaving a little twinkling globe that flickers closer and closer. There is nervous excitement, a definite feeling of anticipation. Ianto has no idea what the light is – he just knows it is linked to whatever is in the cabin, and the mysterious figures he saw in the Bay before he left. This is it. He reaches for his phone. Still no signal. And then, with a sputter, no battery.
He looks out across the deck, as the little twinkling fireflies of camera phones snuff out one by one.
Oh god. No witnesses.
The light comes closer and closer.
At first like fireworks – a bright ball of light arcs twice over the boat. Then Lucky Debbie runs up and grabs Ianto’s hand. ‘It’s still! The sea!’ she hisses. All around them, the waves settle flat, bowing down like lions before the light.
Then comes the sound – a roar of an ancient horn, like the loudest, most exciting, most frightening thing Ianto has ever heard.
For a second, it is dark. Very, very dark. And utterly silent.
And then the light comes back, a giant ball that sweeps over the boat, and then, with the sounding again of that awful horn, it splits into two, two balls of fire that circle round and round the deck.
Then the horn sounds a third time. It doesn’t die away, but is followed by a deep boom – the shattering thud of something tearing deep underneath the water. There are screams from all around, but Ianto barely hears them. ‘Oh god,’ he thinks, realising how alone they are. In the distance, he can’t even see Cardiff any more. Just this fog bank. Blocking them off from the world.
Something bad is going to happen – he knows it, feeling as afraid as he felt when in trouble at school, when he went on a date knowing he was going to be dumped, or when he’d gone back into Torchwood to find Lisa. Something terrible is going to happen and there is nothing he can do to stop it. No weapons, no technology, no Toshiko, no Captain Jack. Just Ianto Jones against this.
The balls of light arc over again, and with a scream of tin, sheets of steel rip up from the deck and flutter into the sea.
The shouts from the bar are louder now, all the more so for the completely still sea. The siren wail of the horn finally fades like a wounded beast and the balls of light glow and descend, floating along the deck until they are just above the surface. Dancing inside each sphere is… a shape. And he can hear laughter.
The spheres contract, melt, each shape flowing into a human form carved out of sun. The two figures stride forward, their feet just failing to touch the ground. One turns to the other. It speaks, a voice thundering and echoing like continents slapping together.
‘We are here for one thing. And those who have it know what that is.’
‘Give it up!’ bellows the other. ‘Bring it out now.’
‘Please,’ the other sighs, like an avalanche.
The other stretches out a hand, and light boils across the deck, wrapping around the mast, and then whipping across the lifeboats, shattering each one in a cloud of burning splinters. People start to scream. One of the figures turns, a hand forming a gentle sssshing motion against its glowing face. The first steps forward, past Ianto. Ianto feels a warmth like a furnace flicker across his cheek. ‘You have two minutes.’
A pause. Then the other figure turns and steps almost shiftily towards the passengers who bunch up against the advancing heat. It speaks, its voice lower, more discreet.
‘Anyone got a fag?’
What? Ianto is moved and not surprised when Lucky Debbie steps forward, fumbling in her handbag for a Superking. The figure reaches out a hand and takes it, leaning over her. ‘Thanks,’ it says, its voice dropping to almost a whisper.
Somehow it holds the cigarette in its glowing fingers, and then lets the end spark into life by itself. It pauses, leaning closer, conspiratorially. ‘This had better not be menthol.’
‘No,’
says Debbie, very quietly and firmly.
The figure takes a drag. ‘Lovely. Thank you. You’ll be the last to die.’
Debbie nods, but her face is set into the Swansea-girl look which says, ‘You’re not all that.’
The figure strides above the deck, gently smoking away, while the other rises up, expanding and pulsing dangerously.
‘They’ve not come out.’
‘No, I know that.’ There’s a petulant note. Almost disappointed. ‘I’d expected better of them.’ A long sigh that rolls out across the sea. ‘Fine.’ Both fists burst into giant balls of flame that lash out, smashing into the bar, scattering tables and glasses and people. There are screams and cries and the smell of burning nylon carpet.
‘Do you hear us, Christine and Ross?’ boom both of the figures together, their voices louder than a storm. ‘We’re getting violent. People are going to die soon. You’d better not be hiding, cos we’re going to put on a bloody great show.’
‘You selfish pricks,’ snaps the smoking figure, bitterly.
The shapes come down, floating in front of Ianto and Debbie. Ianto can feel the hiss of the air starting to boil, can see those fists split and crack out into flaming, angry spheres. He feels Debbie tense up next to him – brave up to the end. Not so Lucky Debbie, he thought sadly. Then, swallowing, he opens his mouth.
‘I…’ His voice vanishes.
One of the figures flashes up next to him, fire scorching Ianto’s face. As it stares into him with eyes of coal, he feels his flesh begin to smoulder and burn. He cries out slightly.
‘Yes?’
‘I…’ He finds his voice, and is saddened to hear it is a yelp. ‘I know who you’re looking for. I can take you to them.’
