by Goss, James
‘So, you’re like a genie? And I get three wishes?’
A tinkle of laughter. Oh, Emma, honey, you get waaaaay more than three wishes. I just have to look into your mind and I can give you what you want. I can make you what you’ve always dreamed of. Taller, thinner, better hair. Darling, there’s no limit to what you can achieve with knockout tits and a nice smile.
Emma reached out a trembling hand for her mug and took an uncertain sip of her chocolate. There was an excited fluttering in her stomach. ‘Really? Does it hurt? How much does it cost?’
Ah, that’s the best bit. There’s no cost. I’m just chuffed to be able to help. And it’s started already. Want to see what you can look like? Go on girl – take a butcher’s in the mirror.
Emma stood up and crossed to the wicker-framed lounge mirror. And she dropped her mug in shock. She bolted off to the kitchen and returned with a damp cloth. She scrubbed away at the carpet, staring at herself in the mirror and repeating over and over ‘oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god’ while the voice of Cheryl giggled delightedly in her head.
When she was eventually satisfied that there wouldn’t be a stain, she stood up, nervously straightening out her jogging trousers and staring at herself. She turned sideways and then sneaked a look at her bum.
And, finally, Emma laughed. She was suddenly gorgeous. Her figure was firmer, taller, and her eyes bluer – and yet she was still herself. She felt warm and confident and brilliant, and her skin was radiant.
And that, Em, is just the start of what we can do. We’re gonna have such a laugh. Things are going to be just perfect.
GWEN IS LATE FOR WORK
Gwen was late for reasons that bored even her. She briefly toyed with an apology to Jack that took in Rhys’s eccentric approach to whites-only laundry, but figured ‘life is too, too short’. So she slumped down at her desk, grabbed a bite of her Greggs pastry thing, logged in to the baffling swirl of her Torchwood desktop, and then noticed the New And Upsetting Thing.
‘Er, hello!’ she said, grinning broadly at the stunning woman tidying a workstation.
The woman looked up briefly, smiled weakly, and went back to watering the plants.
Bitch, thought Gwen. She’d clearly missed a memo. First Martha, now this. Replacing Owen with some ice queen with no personality, great hair and bloody amazing shoes. Gwen decided this was the worst Monday at Torchwood ever. Working with a supermodel. Great. Goodbye biscuits, booze and Primark. Hello gym, bottled water and clothes she couldn’t afford. What was Jack thinking?
She sneaked a glance across the desk. Actually, she knew exactly what Jack was thinking. For a man who’d lived through the entire twentieth century, he sometimes seemed stuck in the Dark Ages. Gwen breathed in. Better make friends. You never know, she might be genuinely nice, or she might get horrid period pains or have a really bad stutter. Poor lamb. Thinking about it, hell, she worked for Torchwood – she was bound to have lost half her family and everyone she’d ever kissed.
‘Hiya!’ Gwen said again.
‘What?’ said the woman, looking up. She looked odd. Distracted, but also a bit… no, not shy… embarrassed. Why? She hadn’t farted or something had she? Oh, please let it be that. Please.
‘Is everything OK?’ ventured Gwen, trying to keep the smile out of her voice.
‘What do you think?’ the woman snapped back, miserably. ‘I look like this! It is definitely not OK.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Gwen, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘I think you look very nice,’ she finished, sounding like her Aunt Phyliss outside Sunday chapel. Please tell me she’s not about to start ranting about feeling fat. I am so going to hate her.
‘Nice?’ snorted the woman. ‘Not you too. Honestly, you turn up with a short skirt, and suddenly everyone’s trying to jump you. Typical Torchwood.’
Gwen blinked. ‘Excuse me, I think you’re mistaken. I’m, ah, definitely not trying to have…’ What would they say in a real office? Er… ‘Oh god. I’m not flirting with you. I am simply saying that I think that you’re looking… quite nice. Yes.’ Gwen finished the sentence and vowed never to start another one. There. It probably hadn’t gone too badly – the poor thing was probably constantly being hit on. Easy mistake to make, etc, olive branch extended. Lovely.
‘Oh, please, get over yourself, Gwen,’ snapped the woman, miserably. ‘You don’t understand a thing.’
‘Is that so?’ Gwen felt herself puffing up. The woman started to smile, smile in a way that Gwen decided would go really well with a slap. As the red mist started to descend, Gwen heard the thundering of boots on the metal gantry behind her.
‘Gwen!’ yelled Jack. ‘Gwen!’
Gwen turned. ‘What?’ she snapped.
‘It’s not what you think!’ said Jack.
‘No, it’s not,’ said the woman, looking a little scared. Good. Hang on. There was something familiar. A little sad, even.
Gwen looked back at the woman. ‘Do I know you?’
The woman shrugged helplessly.
‘Gwen, this is Ianto,’ said Jack.
‘Bloody Torchwood,’ said Gwen.
EMMA IS HAVING HER LAST
BAD DAY AT WORK
Emma took a drag on her cigarette and looked up at the office. The voice in her head was telling her marvellous things. And she believed them.
She couldn’t quite get over the changes in her. It was like she’d been on one of those TV programmes, only without the agonising surgery and patronising humiliation. She was calling today Makeover Day, the day she made a real difference at work.
Interestingly, people had only gradually noticed the change in her, which disappointed her slightly.
It will take people who know you a day to adjust. And that’s a good thing, trust me. They’ll just come away thinking you’re looking good. We don’t want them getting suspicious. Life is not just a case of taking off your glasses and throwing back your hair and but Miss Jones you’re beautiful. We’ll have none of that crap, ta very much.
‘Oh,’ Emma had thought. ‘Not even a little?’
Oh, buck up, sweetheart. True class never makes a grand entrance. Just be the natural centre of attention.
And yet, the morning had passed with barely a comment – good hair, nice dress, was that a new herbal tea she was drinking? But nothing to stop the world. The thing is, there was only one reaction she was waiting for – Vile Kate’s.
But Vile Kate hadn’t even noticed. ‘Ooh, you shouldn’t eat that, not now you’ve passed the big three-oh!’ she’d said. Vile Kate was always saying things like that. Always pottering surreptitiously around the office with large cards with nasty drawings of teddies on them, her life an endless round of collecting together presents for leaving-dos and birthdays and weddings and births and Secret-sodding-Santa.
Kate was, as far as everyone else seemed to think, the jolliest, nicest person in the office. She had a lovely new boyfriend (‘Maurice’ pronounced ‘Maw-reece’), an almost endless bundle of kiddies, and a natural ability to succeed at work without either intelligence or effort. And yet Emma hated and feared Vile Kate.
And this was because of her stunning talent at swatting her down without effort: ‘Aw, sweets – you’re all out of breath. Of course you’ll be like that if you keep smoking.’ Or: ‘Oh dear. You’re looking tired. Are you all right?’
Everyone liked Kate. No one really liked Emma. Not that that was a real problem – it was just work. It hadn’t been a problem in Bristol. Emma had had loads of mates back in Bristol. She’d loved living there. Well, until she and Paul had split up. They’d been really amicable about it, and it had been easier moving to the Cardiff branch when the chance of a tiny promotion had come up. She still saw him loads, and they still hung out with the same bunch of friends a couple of times a month. It was all great. It was just taking her a while to find friends of her own in Cardiff. Which had meant a lot of quiet nights in, or nights out with the girls from work. Everyone at work (apart from Kate) was
lovely. They were just a bit… you know, All Bar One.
Emma had been trying to learn a bit about rugby and to like the flavour of Brains followed rapidly by zambuca. She was already a master of staggering down Chippie Alley in search of a kebab and a taxi.
‘I see you’re doing that speed-dating, love,’ continued Kate, looming over her desk. She had one of those voices, a constant tone of mildly resentful surprise. Emma imagined she’d use the same tone for ‘Ooh, I hear you’ve joined the Nazi Party.’
Emma stared dead ahead at her computer and let the remark hang in the air. Don’t respond. Don’t join in. Don’t… you know. Let her win.
‘Exciting,’ continued Kate with a little laugh at nothing. ‘Well, I think it’s nice if you’ve not managed to find a man in the usual manner.’ Another little laugh.
Emma felt herself blushing and stared directly into her Outlook, willing a new email to turn up. She kept her smile effortlessly in place.
I’ll show you, she thought.
Oh yes, said the surprising voice in her head. We’ll show her.
IANTO IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN STATIC CLING
Gwen and Jack sat in the boardroom, trying not to look at Ianto as he came in with a tray of coffee.
‘How?’ she mouthed.
Jack shrugged.
Ianto leaned forward to pass over a cup and Gwen boggled. She mimed melons to Jack. He nodded.
Ianto looked between the two of them, stiffly.
‘OK, team!’ said Jack. ‘It’s a busy day. Lots to cover. Ianto’s a woman, a ferry nearly sank and static electricity is up by twenty-three per cent.’
‘What’s top priority?’ asked Gwen.
‘Ianto,’ boomed Jack. ‘Unless you’re wearing nylon.’
‘OK,’ said Gwen. ‘How did he… she…? I mean…’
Ianto shrugged. ‘I just woke up like this. No memory, slight hangover, pair of breasts. Honestly.’
Gwen nodded. ‘Right. Nothing unusual then?’
‘Well, not apart from the surprising lack of cock.’
‘A situation we can all sympathise with,’ sighed Jack. ‘Ianto Jones is brilliant, you know. He wakes up. Different fingerprints, voice, DNA, so how am I going to recognise him? He kisses me. And I know at once! Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?’ He grinned dopily.
Ianto looked embarrassed. ‘It really is me Gwen. I really don’t know how I can prove it to you, but—’
‘Please don’t kiss me!’ Gwen protested, giggling and waving him away. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine. Confused, mildly frightened, but basically fine.’ Ianto nodded. ‘It’s me, Gwen. If I’m a cunning alien infiltration plan, then I’m the worst ever.’
Jack smiled. ‘We’ll sort it out. We always do. Somehow. Don’t you worry, Ianto Jones.’
‘Thank you. To be honest,’ admitted Ianto, ‘bit freaked.’
‘Yes, but, on the scale of things, it’s hardly another nuclear blast in Aberdare. It’s more for our HR department.’
Gwen looked troubled. ‘But we don’t have an HR department.’
‘We’ve got you,’ said Jack, and smirked.
Gwen didn’t rise to it. Instead she patted Ianto on the arm. ‘We can solve this. This is nothing – we got you back from being invisible.’
Ianto nodded, his hair cascading neatly down his shoulders. ‘And now I’m the Highly Visible Woman.’ There was a little of his old voice in his laugh.
Gwen glanced at Jack. ‘We should start with his memory, shouldn’t we?’
Jack nodded approvingly. ‘There is something I had in mind, yes.’
Ianto looked alarmed. ‘Oh. You’re going to use something alien on me, aren’t you?’
Jack nodded. ‘Kind of. It’s an anti-retcon pill. Supposed to reverse memory loss.’
‘But…?’
Jack pulled the pill out of a pocket and picked some fluff off of it. ‘It’ll take a while to start working. If it works at all. Maybe three days. Sooner if there’s a trigger. Plus, there’s a tiny danger that you might remember Everything.’
‘What’s wrong about tha- oh.’
‘Yup,’ said Jack. ‘It’s not selective. You might suddenly have a head full of maths tests and Monday mornings.’
Ianto smiled bravely. ‘Who’s to say I don’t already?’ He took the pill, which tasted pleasantly fruity.
‘Hmm,’ said Jack. ‘Hope that was the right pill.’ He patted down his pockets. ‘Ah well. Let me know if you start seeing clowns.’
‘Right,’ said Ianto quietly. ‘Well, let’s wait and see.’ He looked around the room. ‘What’s next?’
‘The ferry crash. Well, by all accounts, more of a ferry prang, really. Although that hasn’t stopped David Brigstocke calling it “a major maritime disaster” on Radio Wales.’
‘Tosser,’ tutted Gwen and Ianto together.
Jack stood up. ‘We should get going.’
Ianto remained seated. ‘Can I stay behind? If that’s all right? I’d like a chance to, you know, work on my memory. Do a few cosy, familiar things. Clean the coffee filter. Feed the Weevils. Stuff.’
‘Good idea,’ beamed Jack. ‘And anyway, I don’t trust you round sailors looking like that. I’ll take Gwen. Much safer.’
He swept out. Gwen scowled at his back and followed him.
Ianto waited until they’d gone, and then slumped onto the table, auburn hair spilling out across the lacquer. ‘Oh god,’ he moaned.
CAPTAIN JACK IS FEELING
BUOYANT
You can navigate Cardiff Bay by a succession of expensive follies with interesting names.
Beyond the Welsh Assembly Anti-Terrorist Barriers (erected at vast expense before someone pointed out that you could drive round them) but not quite as far as Cardiff International Heliport, lies the newly opened Cardiff International Ferryport.
Really it was just a patch of Docks not suitable for executive homes or freight due to poisonous mould. So someone had come up with the idea of running a highly subsidised ferry route to Ireland.
It took longer than going via Swansea, but was cheaper, and the ferry had been painted a cheerful shade of green. It had launched a couple of months earlier, with a lot of carbon-neutral fanfare.
When it had opened for business, Gwen had toyed with going. #8216;Ooh, it’s just like the Eurostar,’ Rhys had cooed mockingly, which had put an end to it.
And now here she was, standing at the terminal with Jack, watching the remains of the ferry dragged into the Docks by a tugboat.
The ferry had been a fine bit of 1970s engineering, kept afloat with Norwegian pride and a fresh lick of paint. Now it looked like a kicked tin can, strips of metal fluttering in the breeze like flags.
‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Gwen.
‘I’ve been in worse,’ said Jack, with a hint of professional pride. ‘I’ve seen a World War Two mine rip a battleship apart like wet cardboard. Believe it or not, that ferry is still pretty much seaworthy. Ah, Norway, I salute you. Strong ships and even stronger sailors.’
‘Right,’ thought Gwen. ‘I’ll be spending the day interviewing stunned survivors in Portakabins while Jack’s chatting up the crew. Marvellous.’
The ferry chugged past them, filthy water gushing from tears in the sides.
‘No scorch marks,’ said Gwen.
Jack shrugged. ‘Not that unusual. Those are secondary explosions from the inside out.’ He squinted. ‘Yup. Good news. Definitely not claw marks.’
‘You just don’t want the paperwork,’ teased Gwen.
They watched the ferry bump unsteadily into port.
‘I don’t want any of this,’ he told her. ‘Aliens are the new Health and Safety Nightmare. There are people in high places who are desperate to blame a Rift-related cause for this. It’s more likely the boat just hit something – a World War Two mine’s a World War Two mine you didn’t see coming, whether or not it’s drifted through the Rift. I don’t like being scapegoated every time
something goes wrong.’
‘Aliens ate my homework?’ Gwen laughed.
Jack laughed. ‘What a brave new world. Now go and find some eyewitnesses to talk to.’
‘What about Iantoya?’ asked Gwen. ‘Sure we don’t need him?’
‘Oh, he’s best off at the Hub. Until he feels… you know… himself.’
‘Jack Harkness, you are terrible. The poor lamb’s got nothing to look forward to apart from filing, making the coffee and sexual harassment.’
‘I know,’ said Jack. ‘I just want to surround him with familiar things.’
DORICE IS HER USUAL RED
Ianto had a quiet first morning as a woman. There was very little Rift activity, and only a few elderly tourists popped into the Tourist Information Centre that he manned above Torchwood. And then there was Dorice from the Shopping Centre, who dropped in with leaflets once a month. Dorice was, mostly in her own opinion, a right laugh. There was something about her that was a bit too red. He was never quite sure if it was her hair, her dress, her make-up or her nails, but the woman glowed.
He was surprised that he still couldn’t work it out. He’d kind of hoped that, now he was a proper woman, he’d have some kind of X-Ray Fashion Vision that would allow him to solve the mystery of Dorice’s redness. But no. There she was, leaving a huge lipstick mark on a cup of his excellent coffee, talking away, all hair and noise and redness. And still just as puzzlingly red. She was just a vaguely unattractive, slightly untidy, mildly overweight woman in her late forties.
But Dorice had talked, on and on, loudly and excitedly about developments and redevelopments in the Bay. Most of her talk was about the ferry crash, ‘which is a shame, as I hope it catches on. I was dead excited at a trip to Minehead. Fancy that – me and Harry taking a mucky break to Butlin’s. You know they’ve got their very own version of the Millennium Dome? Isn’t that nice, especially as I never got to make it to the proper one. Did you dear?’
Oddly enough, Ianto had. One of his very first jobs at Torchwood had been at the Dome. To this day, whenever he saw a picture of it, he’d remember what was sealed underneath it, and shudder.
