The House That Jack Built

by Guy Adams

  'No, not today,' she called after him, draping the towel across her lap. 'Today was not a good day.'

  Rhys came back and looked at her. 'Tell me about it.'

  She smiled to see how much he clearly loved her. 'You don't want to know.'

  'I do, of course I do. Come on, Gwen, what sort of husband would I be if I wasn't here to offload on?'

  'Two people died,' she said. 'One was only a young lad...the other a woman.'

  'Do you know who did it?' Rhys asked.

  'We don't even know whether it was natural or not,' Gwen admitted. 'For all we know, there could be more by the morning.'

  'But you still came home.'

  Gwen smiled. 'I missed you.'

  Rhys nodded, returning to the kitchen and opening the oven. 'That and the fact you were starving and knew that I was cooking.' He removed the baking tray and dropped it onto the work surface. 'Spare ribs!'

  Gwen caught the smell wafting from the oven and was on her feet and running towards the bathroom.

  Rhys bit his lip as the sound of her throwing up worked its way back to the kitchen.

  'Or maybe you're not that hungry after all,' he muttered, putting down his oven glove and stepping through to the bathroom.

  'I'm sorry,' Gwen said, wiping her mouth and flushing the toilet. 'It was the smell... The woman I said about, she burned to death and... Sorry, I just can't.'

  Rhys sat down on the edge of the bathtub and stroked her hair. 'Don't be silly, not your fault... I just wish... I... I don't know.'

  'What?'

  'Wish I knew all the right things to say to make you feel better,' he said. 'It's not like other people, is it? If your wife comes home from a bad day at the office you listen to her bitch about her boss, say all the right things and help her get it off her chest. With you... Well, what can I say? "Sorry you've had another day of death and violence, love, fancy a takeaway and a rented movie to take your mind off it?" There's just nothing I can do is there? How can I help you deal with the sort of thing that's your day? I just feel useless sometimes.'

  Gwen hugged him. 'You're not useless at all, you're lovely. In fact you're perfect.'

  He smiled. 'Oh aye, you're right actually. I forget how great I am sometimes.'

  'You do,' she said, squeezing his hand.

  They sat there for a moment, holding each other's hands.

  'Go on,' Rhys said eventually.

  'Go on what?'

  'Go back to work,' Rhys replied. 'You'll feel better if you just work through it. I know you, come the early hours you'll stumble on something and it'll all start making more sense and then you can walk away a bit, knowing you've done something.'

  Gwen stared at him and felt her love for the man deepen even further than she could have thought possible. 'What did I ever do to deserve you?' she said.

  'No idea,' he grinned. 'You're just the luckiest woman in all of Cardiff, I suppose.'

  'In the whole world.'

  'Whole universe!'

  'Now you're talking.' He kissed her on the cheek. 'Go on, I mean it. I won't even miss you. I've got wine, extra dinner and more action films than I can shake a machine gun at. You'll only cramp my style. I had the perfect evening planned before you showed up and dripped all over the sofa.'

  She kissed him again, hard, and nodded.

  He sat there a little longer as he listened to her grab her car keys and head back out of the door.

  'I lied,' he said to himself. 'I miss you more than you ever know.'

  Getting up, he headed back into the kitchen to plate up his dinner.

  Gwen stepped back into the Hub and walked over to her workstation.

  She could hear the sound of Alexander still working away in the Autopsy Room, the occasional swear word or grunt wafting up the stairs. She wondered where Jack knew him from. He hadn't volunteered the information, of course. Did he ever? The old man had just been presented to them as 'someone he knew', and that would have to be enough. Not that she didn't trust Jack, but – and maybe it was the old copper in her – she liked to know who she was dealing with, didn't like secrets. Never mind, secrets were Jack's preferred currency and she supposed one day she would get used to it.

  She booted up her computer and settled herself in her chair. While she might not be able to find out anything about Alexander just now, there were certainly more pressing mysteries to hand and hopefully they were something she could figure out. After all, with the facilities she had at Torchwood there was very little she couldn't discover given a little time and enough processing power to run a small country. She had never got over how wonderful Torchwood's search database was. Having worked in law enforcement, she knew that – whatever films said to the contrary – cross-referencing evidence was not the same as Googling. You didn't just put in two or three search strings then get presented with a handful of potential suspects. It took hours and – worse than that – there was no guarantee that you'd find anything useful at the end of it. Actually, scratch that, it was exactly like Google... But not with Torchwood. The database was composed of every conceivable registry: civil, law enforcement, even intelligence services – her computer access alone was enough to have her assassinated as a security risk in nineteen countries.

  She tapped in the address and then sat back, wondering what might help to narrow it down. It was depressing to admit there was nothing... The state of the body perhaps? No, that might make things too specific. Chronons? Perhaps. She tapped them in and then deleted it again. Just check the address, start wide and narrow down.

  She rummaged in her workstation for the little jar of instant coffee she kept hidden from Ianto, but it was empty. She went to persuade the coffee machine to give her a cup while the computer gave itself a good talking to. She tapped her nails impatiently on the side of the machine as it bubbled and gurgled its way towards a gritty cappuccino. She was sure Ianto had sabotaged the thing to ensure it never came close to competing with his own finely crafted caffeine doses. Perhaps he injected it with river silt. Finally, it dribbled apologetically into a mug, which Gwen carried back to her desk.

  Her monitor was attempting not to look smug as it offered an alphabetical list of news reports and police files relating to the road in Penylan. She was surprised by how many there were, even more so once she realised they all related to the same building: the house she had seen the young couple moving in to. But that was nothing compared to the final revelation her computer had to offer. She stabbed at the button of her desk intercom, scanning the text on her screen as she waited for Jack to answer.

  'Hey, Gwen,' barked the intercom speaker. 'Please tell me it's not morning already.'

  'We need to talk,' Gwen replied. 'Boardroom, twenty minutes.'

  'OK,' Jack said as he strolled into the Boardroom. 'Brighten up my night and tell me you've found something we can go beat up. Dealing with Alexander's given me lots of aggression to work off.'

  'Sit down,' Gwen replied, connecting her PDA to the projector, 'and shut up.'

  'I just love bossy women,' Jack replied, though his smile soon faded as her mood reached him.

  The projection screen began to fill with images: an elderly lady with skin as pale as a bed-sheet; a skinny girl, little to her but cheekbones and sadness; a long-haired surfer-type, beard grown thick to hide his youth; a glamorous woman, headscarf and big sunglasses; a myopic balding man, like a mole in a pullover... The faces kept coming, fourteen in all, until one final portrait made Jack sit forward.

  It was his own.

  'What have all these people got in common?' asked Gwen.

  Jack could only shrug, though a suspicion rolled around in his head that was confirmed when she cued up the next image.

  'They all lived here,' she said, pointing to the photo of the Edwardian house. 'Jackson Leaves, built in 1906 and trouble ever since, it seems. Were you going to mention it?'

  'That I lived there?' Jack replied. 'Probably not... It hardly seemed relevant. I've been around, you know... There's not man
y parts of Cardiff I don't know intimately.'

  'Not many of its residents either,' Gwen muttered.

  'My point is, just because I used to live nearby doesn't mean Danny Wilkinson's death was anything to do with me.'

  'Maybe not, but I'd be willing to bet that something about that house is connected.' Gwen tapped the trackpad on her PDA, and the line of faces reappeared on the projection screen. 'It has a history, Jack,' she pointed at the faces. 'You're the odd one out here. Know why?'

  Jack shrugged.

  Gwen stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether she believed him or not. 'You're the only one who's still alive,' she said. 'The rest of them died in the house.'

  'All of them?' said Jack. 'That's long odds.'

  'Ridiculously long, and they don't include people like Danny who died on the doorstep.' Gwen stared at the faces on the screen. 'The odds get worse,' she continued, pointing at the old lady. 'Joan Bosher. Lived there over thirty years before a heart attack sent her packing, she's the one who left it to the young couple we saw moving in yesterday. She's the only person on this list whose death could have been natural. The rest... no way.'

  She pointed at the thin woman. 'When Joan Bosher originally moved in, she let out rooms to lodgers. This is one of them: Kerry Robinson, librarian and aspiring poet, opened her wrists in the bathtub.'

  She moved her finger to the long-haired man. 'Richard Hopkins, trainee hairdresser in Barry, also a lodger. He went berserk with a croquet mallet at a local pub.' Gwen glanced at her PDA to remind her of the name. 'The Hop and Kilderkin... Ran back to the house and put a pair of hairdressing scissors through his left eye.' She pointed at the woman in a headscarf. 'Michelle Sillence, interior designer – owned the place before Joan with an intention to renovate. She didn't so much as open a pot of paint...'

  Gwen sighed and rubbed at her tired face. 'She was found hanging from one of the roof joists in the attic, pigeons had made a meal of her face. We've got the lot, drowned, shot, stabbed...' She gestured vaguely at the faces in front of them. 'All of them died... badly at Jackson Leaves.'

  Jack stared at the screen. 'It was a nice house...'

  'You – and possibly Joan Bosher – are the only ones who think so. As much as it makes me cringe to say it, something about that house attracts violence and death.'

  'So what is it, and why were Joan and I not affected?'

  'You telling me that you live a violence-free life?'

  Jack stared at her for a moment. 'I suppose not.'

  'For all we know, you just might not have noticed.'

  Jack's mobile rang. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. 'Yeah?'

  Gwen watched the smile falter on his face. 'In your what?' he asked before his expression changed from confusion to concern. 'I know where it is,' he snapped. 'I'll be right over.'

  He closed the phone.

  'Ianto's been found unconscious,' he said. 'You'll never guess where...'

  TEN

  It was almost as if the ghostly water had frozen Rob, stuck on his knees staring at the spare bed that had reasserted itself in the room. It seemed solid enough. The creases of the off-white sheet, the loose silken threads on the embroidered base, a plastic badge with the brand-name on it turned yellow over the years. It seemed ridiculous to think that an old bathtub had occupied the same space only a few minutes ago.

  He looked down at his wet shirt, a hint of pink in the damp of the white fabric. That was real enough. He heard Julia leave the room, but his mouth felt soft and useless, and he couldn't believe it would ever be used for speaking again. This proved untrue, as the minute he heard her scream he was shouting her name and getting to his feet.

  She was standing in the hallway, staring down at a man in a three-piece suit who lay unconscious at her feet.

  'He's real,' she said, nudging him with her foot.

  Rob dropped to his haunches and rolled the man onto his back. There was a white sheen to his hair and eyebrows, small crystals on his cheeks and forehead. Rob touched the skin gently. 'Ice,' he whispered. 'He's covered in bloody ice.'

  Julia made a slight groaning noise and leaned against the airing cupboard door. 'What's going on?' she said, not expecting an answer.

  Rob didn't feel up to giving her one. 'He's alive,' he said, feeling the man's pulse. He frisked through the man's pockets, pulling a wallet out of his jacket. The wallet was sparse and ordered, unlike his own graveyard of receipts and store benefit cards; there was a crisp twenty-pound note, a plain black credit card and a business card featuring a simple message: 'The bearer of this card is Ianto Jones. If found, please dial 000 and wait for a response.'

  'That's not even a proper number,' Julia said, reading over Rob's shoulder.

  'One way to find out,' he replied, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and dialling three zeroes. Someone answered almost straight away, and Rob raised his eyebrows at Julia. 'Hello, erm... My name's Rob Wallace, and I've just found someone called Ianto Jones in my airing cupboard.'

  The other person obviously commented on this. Julia watched a flash of embarrassment cross her husband's face before anger reasserted itself. 'I know it sounds bloody mad,' he replied, 'but it seems to be the night for that around here. There was a... ghost...'

  It was the first time the word had actually occurred to Rob, and the minute it fell out of his mouth, he wished he could swallow it again – it sounded stupid and embarrassing, the sort of thing a child would say. 'Look, it doesn't matter. He's alive but he's out of it. Freezing cold and... well, I don't know... he seems OK, but he shouldn't be here, that's for sure. I'm in Penylan, a house called Jackson Leaves...' Rob looked startled, holding the phone away from his head.

  'He hung up on me,' he said. 'Says he knows where we are, and he's coming over.'

  'Is that a good thing?' Julia asked.

  Rob didn't know, shaking his head and trying to think of what to do next.

  'We should try and warm him up,' said Julia. 'Maybe...' She'd been about to suggest a bath but had then been unable to face the idea. 'I don't know, get a fire going or something... Wrap him in blankets.'

  Rob thought for a moment, unable to decide whether he was happy helping this stranger or not. He gave an irritated growl as he realised he couldn't not. 'All right then, let's get him downstairs. You grab his legs...'

  Julia did. 'God,' she exclaimed before letting him go again. 'He's freezing.'

  'I know.'

  Rob was gritting his teeth, hooking his arms under Ianto's armpits and trying to lift the man's dead weight. 'Heavy, too.'

  Julia took the hint and grabbed Ianto's legs again, ignoring the cold feel of him on her palms.

  She went backwards, shuffling awkwardly, feet splayed out for balance as Rob grunted his way after her.

  'Going to put my back out,' Rob muttered, trying to get a better hold of Ianto. He didn't notice the shadow that fell across them from the top of the stairs, but Julia did. She knew who she would see when she looked up, could tell by how wide the shadow was.

  'Weird,' Rob said. 'I can smell onions...'

  'Just keep going,' Julia replied, refusing to look at the fat man above them as he licked his lips and wiped the sweat from his palms on the shiny breast of his pinstripe suit.

  They got to the foot of the stairs, and Rob turned around, stretching his back and dragging Ianto into the lounge.

  He laid Ianto on the sofa and then came dashing towards her.

  'I think I saw some fire stuff in the cupboard under the stairs,' he said, rubbing his hands together from the cold. He saw a look on her face that worried him. 'Don't,' he said, shaking slightly. 'If I stop, I'll lose it. Seriously, I've got to keep moving, don't think... just do.'

  He pushed past her and jogged to the cupboard, yanking the door open and rifling through the junk inside. They were going to have to throw most of this crap away, whatever Julia might say. There were boxes of newspapers and magazines, a stack of yellowing paperbacks, an old croquet set (thou
gh one of the mallets had clearly been damaged at some point, as the shaft was wrapped in plastic tape), an old Dansette record player... so much rubbish. He grabbed a box of the newspapers and spotted a couple of carrier bags of dried kindling. No coal or larger logs, though; no doubt they were outside. They could stay there. He'd build the thing out of sticks and newspaper, rather than go hunting for them; there was plenty of it, after all. He took it all through to the grate, closing the lounge door behind him, and began snapping fire-lighters over scrunched-up balls of decade-old newspaper.

  'What are we doing?' Julia asked.

  Rob shook his head. 'That man will be here soon.'

  'So?' Julia responded. 'For all we know he's... I don't know.' She hugged herself. 'He might be no help at all. I mean... Jesus... What's happening, Rob?'

  Her voice was getting more high-pitched, she was losing the numbness that had kept her going, and now she just wanted to start lashing out.

  Rob was sinking into himself, his fingers slowly ferreting around in a matchbox for a fresh match to light.

  'Why are we even still here?' she asked.

  Rob couldn't give her an answer, slowly striking a match against the crumbling sandpaper. The match snapped, unlit. He hunted for another.

  'Seriously,' Julia continued, 'this is ridiculous. Please tell me you have the van keys? We could be driving up the road and away from here...'

  The second match flared.

  Julia walked towards the lounge door, determined to get out of the building.

  The door began to vibrate in its frame, wood hammering against wood, hard enough to bring dust from the ceiling. Julia gave a surprised yelp and Rob dropped the match to the floor, running to her side and grabbing her protectively. They squeezed each other as the banging continued, a pounding that seemed to move from the door across the walls and ceiling, like a colossal hammer being brought down on the house all around them.

  The television switched on, its screen filled with static, the white noise of the speaker drowning out the faint crackle of a building flame where the dropped match was setting fire to the rug. Anything can be heard in the chaos of white noise, whispers and the delicate shapes of words beneath the crackle and pop. If Rob and Julia had been feeling rational, they would never have believed they heard voices in the speaker.