Almost Perfect

by James Goss

  Ross laughed. ‘Christine used to think so, too. But no – the body’s perfect. It doesn’t really gain that much weight. It just stays fairly lean and trim and fresh. It doesn’t really age. I should know – since she’s been gone, I’ve been lost. I’ve been pushing this body to the limits – and every day it snaps back to how it was.’

  ‘Dorian Gray,’ mused Jack.

  ‘If you like – but there’s no painting in the attic.’

  ‘Oh there is,’ said Jack grimly. ‘There’s always a picture in the attic. There’s always a bill to be paid. What did you do? What happened?’

  ‘Well,’ said Ross. ‘We were designers and decorators. You know how it is. We made a lot of money. We made each other very happy. And we had these clients – and they were like friends. And they were the most beautiful couple. I mean, gay, so obviously, looked after themselves, and what have you, but they were really, really wonderful. Great to work for, and somehow you knew just what it was they wanted. It was the easiest job we’d ever worked on. And we could just wander in and out of the flat and they didn’t mind. They were very free and easy and we felt… we were their best friends. Although they had a lot of best friends. Some would be around for a few weeks, some for just one night. But we were there for a while – we had work to do. We had decorating to do. And we felt fulfilled, worthwhile. We were making somewhere suitable for them.

  ‘And one day, they were out, or in bed or something. And there was this tiny ornament. Christine found it first. She just noticed it on a shelf. She said it was calling out to her. She said it was all forgotten and lonely and it wanted to be taken away. And she said we should do that. And we did.

  ‘And it told us what to do. Honestly. As soon as we both touched it, it was there in our heads. Christine said it sounded like her dad. For me, it sounded just like Richard bloody Burton. But somehow, that object talked to us. Soothing and strong and lovely.

  ‘And we left the flat, and we never looked back. It made us beautiful. Oh, we were great before – but it made everything we ever worried about go away. And after it had done that, it asked us if there was anything more we wanted. World Peace, Chris said. It laughed, but I said it would be nice to do something good. And the little stone said that that could be arranged.

  ‘Took a couple of months, mind. Keeping underground, realising that we could use the ferry service as a cover. Letting word of mouth spread subtly. We lived in Dublin, only took the journey once a week. Kept a low profile. We weren’t sure what we’d done, but we figured it wasn’t best to make a noise. And then… well, the newspaper thing came out, and for some reason I knew we’d gone a step too far. I don’t know if it was the picture with Christine in it, or the cheek that I’d let myself get quoted. But we looked at it, and we worried. But we figured we were doing good. We were making a lot of money, yeah, but we were really making a difference. Certainly a lot more than decorating. You know how it is.’

  They all nodded.

  ‘And then… then it all happened. And I’m sorry – I’m sorry for you, and for all those people – and for Christine. But I dunno. Were we doing the right thing? I’ll always think we were, but I don’t know. I’ve just been sat in Cardiff, waiting for someone to find me, really. To tell me.’

  ‘OK,’ said Jack.

  ‘And?’ Ross looked up, his beautiful face somehow tired and stretched and marked. ‘Did I do the right thing?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘We feel how we think. There’s a bigger picture here – and it depends how much of it you want to see. On every flea another flea feeds. And what suck’d you first suck’d me. John Donne, maybe. Do you know what will happen to Ianto? Can you cure him?’

  Ross shook his head. ‘Only the device can do that. Maybe. You really don’t have it?’ He looked suddenly hopeful.

  Ianto smiled. ‘No. And I don’t think we would give it to you if we had it.’

  ‘It’s a toy of the gods,’ said Jack, his face hardening. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

  Ross looked terribly sad.

  Jack scraped his chair back and stood up. ‘Come on, Ianto, we have work to do. Thank you for your time. We shan’t meet again, Mr Kielty. Make the most of your life.’

  He strode away.

  Ianto turned and shrugged, the movement suddenly all wrong in the body. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said, and walked off into the rain.

  Ross watched the figure of his wife walk down the road, turn a corner, and vanish for ever.

  IANTO IS EXPLAINING HOW

  COFFEE IS LIKE LIFE

  They didn’t talk on the way back to the Hub, though Jack was swearing at each and every traffic light. They parked, and Jack strode ahead, his coat billowing in the rain.

  Ianto followed behind, limping slightly and cursing his choice of shoes – strange little heels that scooped in the rain and soaked his toes and the skirt just felt wrong, and the pants had shifted, attacking his bum like cheesewire and… Oh, never mind.

  They walked down the fire escape without talking, and Jack stomped into Torchwood. He marched up to his map of the energy cloud, and groaned. Then he threw his coat down and slumped across a sofa.

  Ianto hovered, felt ridiculous, and pottered through into his area, where he started to bang about. ‘The secret is not to burn the beans. Well, scald, really. Coffee scalds at 98 degrees. A lot of baristas insist on 100 degrees when they make their coffee – lots of steam and effect, but you ruin the flavour. That’s why it tastes like it’s made from old batteries – and that’s why you drown it in milk and ginger and cream and foam and chocolate sprinkles – there’s something wrong with the fundamental ingredient, and rather than admit it, you press on, you dress it up, you disguise it. You don’t talk about the problem, you wrap it up in sugar and glitter. Isn’t that right?’

  He handed Jack a cup, who took it automatically. Didn’t say anything, not even thanks.

  Ianto sat down on the sofa next to him, legs not quite in the right order, sipping carefully at his own cup and waiting.

  He waited for a full two minutes before Jack looked him in the eye. And then Jack smiled, and cuffed him gently on the ear. ‘Oh, Ianto Jones,’ he said, and stopped.

  ‘What’s wrong? Are we going to talk about it?’

  Jack sipped the coffee.

  ‘Oh, Ianto. Owen and Gwen and Suzie and Tosh and you – you all spend so much time telling me that the world isn’t simple, that not all aliens are evil, that it’s worth working out why people are here – that I shouldn’t be the ruthless dark one. And sometimes you’re right. And sometimes you’re wrong. All this is my fault. All this is because I made an agreement. An arrangement.’

  He sipped the coffee again and gave Ianto a look that made him feel very frightened.

  GWEN IS NOWHERE, AND IT’S

  FOR BLOODY EVER

  Around her, the old house creaked and yawned, timber cracking like a weary boat at sea. And she just stood there, feet planted solidly on the off-cream carpet, frozen in time just between the sofa and the coffee table.

  Time moved oddly around her, and she recognised the pull in the air of Rift Energy. Which started to explain things. Emma’s little device had reached out and trapped her just outside now. And she wasn’t alone. She could sense other figures, distantly, as though across a vast space. She tried shouting but couldn’t – if she squinted she could somehow perceive about a dozen female figures stood-stock still a long way away… all of them done up to the nines and dressed to kill. She realised she was glimpsing the missing women from speed-dating. They were still there in Tombola’s. She wondered how they were coping after several days outside of time.

  It was a place that was, to be frank, boring and very itchy. She was burning with the desire to scratch her left leg. Left leg first, and then definitely right bum cheek, upper back and then her nose. Plus behind both ears. Urgggh.

  Her feet ached. She wondered how much worse that would get. And how much more tired she would get. She ached, she felt tired. She wanted to
curl up and sleep. But she couldn’t really move. And all around her was the world of Emma’s flat – eternity spread out across the lounge and towards the kitchenette.

  And blocking the view of the universe were Rhys and Emma kissing. They were getting ready to go out, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. She screamed herself hoarse, yelling out Rhys’s name with rage and fear and panic and fury. But no. Nothing.

  Emma kissed Rhys on the cheek. ‘And where are you taking me? Is it somewhere wonderful? It had better be.’

  Rhys leant close. ‘Oh yes. Best view of the Bay, it is. Just you and me.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’ Emma giggled. ‘Oh, you’re wonderful.’ She kissed him again on the cheek and picked up her handbag.

  Rhys held the door open for her and Emma sailed through, glancing over her shoulder to smirk at Gwen.

  And then they were gone. And just Gwen, trapped and alone and motionless in this bloody terrible little flat, itch itch itch, and oh god, she’s left the radio tuned to Classic.

  CAPTAIN JACK, CAPTAIN

  JACK, GET OFF YOUR BACK,

  GO INTO TOWN, DON’T LET US

  DOWN. OH NO, NO.

  Jack was waiting impassively for the invisible lift when Ianto caught up with him.

  ‘I have to go. Don’t follow me, Ianto. This is all my fault.’ Jack was grim.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I made a mistake,’ said Jack. ‘I caused all this. I’ll either be back in an hour, or not at all.’ He shrugged. ‘But hey – you know me. I’m tough.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody rubbish.’

  Jack stepped onto the platform, which started its upward glide. Rain was pouring down around him.

  Straining to see him, Ianto tried to jump up on tiptoe and felt foolish.

  ‘You can’t just go!’ he protested, amazed at how high his voice went. ‘You can’t just run off like this!’

  He could just see Jack, staring back down, giving him a look. It was a look that didn’t belong with the smile that forced its way across his face.

  ‘Jack!’ screamed Ianto as Jack started to vanish through the ceiling.

  He just caught Jack’s voice, floating back down to him.

  ‘Check the energy cloud, Ianto. It’s building up – and there’s about a day before it goes off the scale.’ And then he was gone.

  MOZART IS SPONSORED BY

  CHOLESTRIA

  … now available in a delicious dairy-free drink.

  Next up on I Spy a Maestro… I Spy someone beginning with B. Would anyone care to guess? Don’t forget, we’ve just had P for lovely Pachelbel, and M was for magnificent Mozart, dear Wolfgang Amadeus – but B. Well, there’s almost two choices there. Shall I play you a mystery track and then we’ll take your calls on the usual number? So sit back, relax, and pop your thinking caps on…

  Gwen was bored and scared. Like waiting for test results. This was boredom with a creeping numbness. The itching had gone now. And all she had was this vague lack of sensation. And on top of the tedium, a creeping, creeping loss of… she felt tired, could almost sense her eyes closing, and knew that this could mean a sleep that she’d never wake up from. The minutes crept gently into hours. Her only hope was that perhaps nothing dreadful was happening, that perhaps Rhys would be all right (oh, please let him be all right) and that maybe Emma would come back alone, and she’d see sense and release her. Oh, if Rhys was all right and she could get out then she’d be fine about it. Honest she would.

  … Don’t forget, you’ll need to be licensed to sponsor an immigrant!

  And welcome back to three hours of the most slinky and relaxing music imaginable.

  The key turned in the lock and Emma and Rhys fell through in a laughing, snogging heap, dragging and fumbling their way onto the couch. Gwen was gutted.

  For a second she hoped that her rage and fear might let her do something. Might let her move, or that he’d hear her. That he’d stop. That he’d realise… She struggled and struggled. But she couldn’t move. And she just watched.

  Every now and then, Emma shot a glance of triumph in Gwen’s direction. Gwen wanted to scream back. Emma had taken her life, and she was now taking Rhys – Rhys who wasn’t Rhys, Rhys who she’d changed, who she was somehow making do… this…

  ‘And you’re making me watch. When I get out of here, I am going to hurt you.’

  Emma stood up, zipping down her top and throwing back her hair. ‘Oh, you’re a wild one, Rhys Williams. No wonder your ex couldn’t let you go.’

  Rhys spluttered on his wine. ‘My ex? Not Gwen?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Emma brightly. ‘I met her in the street. She warned me away from you. Said you were bad news. I told her she was pathetic and that you’d moved on.’

  ‘Ohhhhh, good,’ said Rhys uncertainly, suddenly rather more like himself. He looked nervously round the room. ‘You did, did you?’

  Gwen was roaring away invisibly. ‘Yes! Rhys! Yes! Come on, baby! Think. Remember me – you’ve got to remember me!’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Emma, with the faint air of a schoolgirl telling a really big fib. ‘I told her a few home truths. You were too good for her, and she knew it.’

  Rhys looked around the room again, and glanced sickly back at her. ‘You told her this, did you?’ He glanced over at the window, as though expecting Gwen to come crashing through it with a machine gun.

  Emma nodded. ‘Trust me. She’s history. I laid it down to her and she just had to take it. The truth hurts, but it works. You. Will. Never. See. Her. Again.’ And she laughed and reached out her hand, glancing over at Gwen. And Rhys took her hand, at first gently, and then placidly, a dopey grin spreading across his face.

  Gwen suddenly knew that she’d lost him. That Rhys was gone, replaced with the plastic sheep. She howled. Howled with rage and frustration. She was dying, and Rhys was lost – Emma would use him, change him, and then when she got bored, he’d die too. Just like that. And there was nothing she could do but watch. Watch and rage. She never dreamt this would be the end – watching everything taken away from her so cruelly and slowly.

  Rhys stood up, gathering Emma in his arms. She leaned into his ear and breathed, ‘Take me to bed, Rhys.’

  ‘Don’t go, Rhys. Please don’t go. I love you, Rhys!’

  Rhys followed her to the door. And paused.

  ‘Er, why is Gwen’s bag by your sofa?’

  ‘Yes! Oh, Rhys, you beauty! I love you! Yes!’

  Emma’s gaze fell on the bag, and froze, and then she glanced across at where Gwen was.

  Gwen felt a flicker of joy, of hope.

  For the first time, Emma looked desperate, human. She could see the thinking going on. ‘God, how did you get in this mess?’ Gwen thought.

  ‘Oh, Rhys!’ gasped Emma after slightly too long a pause. ‘Gwen’s bag? Oh my god! Has she broken in? Is she trying to scare us? Oh, Rhys, call the police!’ She clung to him.

  Rhys reacted as he always did when faced with tears, curling up with embarrassment – but in this case, also suspicion. ‘Gwen’s… Oh, my love, are you sure she didn’t come here, talk to you? Leave it behind by mistake?’

  ‘No,’ Emma sniffed, quietly.

  He detached himself, and picked up the handbag. He looked inside it, almost automatically. And then he put it down, quietly.

  ‘I love Gwen,’ he said. ‘She’s my wife.’

  ‘What?’ Emma looked up, sudden real grief slapped on her face. ‘No, no. You love me.’

  Rhys shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. No. I remember her now. She’s my wife and I love her. Where is she, please?’ His voice had gone tough.

  Emma ignored him, rifling instead in her own handbag. ‘No, no, no,’ she said flatly. ‘You love me, now. You love me!’

  She was suddenly holding the little glowing pebble in her hands, turning it over and over.

  Do it girl! Do it!

  ‘Oh god, Rhys!’

  Gwen started to scream his name over and over as Emma turned to face
him.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Rhys as she held it sheepishly towards him.

  ‘It’s a gun! It’s a bloody space gun and she’s pointing it at you! Oh, Rhys, oh, she’s going to change you again.’

  Emma paused. It was the careful, slow pause of a shy child showing you her favourite toy. On the one hand, she was proud of it and wanted you to know what it meant to her. On the other hand it was so precious, she didn’t really want to give it up to you. So she’d offer it out with a firm grip and eyes pregnant with tears.

  ‘I don’t know exactly…’ began Emma. ‘But it makes everything special. Would you like to see how it works?’ And she stretched out with it, almost like she was offering it.

  But Gwen knew better, Gwen knew what was going to happen next. Oh, Rhys…

  And suddenly Rhys lunged at her, plucking it out of Emma’s shaking grasp.

  ‘Where did you…?’ he began, and then he stopped. His face slowed down, and took on the surprised, worried expression that Gwen got to see whenever she asked him if he’d paid the water bill.

  And something in Emma changed. She looked startled, and then lost. Desperate. ‘Where’ve you gone, Cheryl?’ she said, quietly.

  Rhys didn’t hear her. But Gwen did.

  Gwen woke up, lying on the sofa. Rhys was kneeling over her, concerned. When she saw him she laughed and hugged him, delighted to be able to smell his smell and actually hold him.

  ‘Where’s she gone? Where’s she gone?’ Gwen yelled, but he shushed her.

  ‘Relax,’ he said, beaming. ‘Just so happens, I’m deputy manager of the Department of Saving Your Arse. Emma is… not a problem.’ He jerked his head over his shoulder.

  Gwen sat up, and looked.

  Standing there like a cross, mildly overweight waxwork with bad skin and terrible hair, was Emma. Not moving, not capable of moving, but fading away, ever so slightly.

  Gwen giggled and then stopped herself. ‘Oh my god. What have you done? Rhys?’

  Rhys looked abashed. ‘It was the voice in my head, see. Told me it was either you or her. No contest, really.’