The Undertakers Gift

by Trevor Baxendale

  ‘A lecture?’ Gillian appeared not to understand the word. And she was actually frowning. ‘First thing?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ray had said. ‘Heath Park at 10.30. I really want to go.’

  Gillian now looked shocked. ‘But you can’t go now,’ she screamed. Ray could barely hear her. ‘It’s just getting good. And besides, you don’t want to be walking home alone. That’s not good.’

  But Ray had always been strong-willed – some would have said stubborn – and there was nothing more guaranteed to make her do something than somebody telling her not to do it. Her parents had found that out at an early age – which, ultimately, was a good part of the reason why Ray had ended up studying Ecology at Cardiff University rather than working in her mother’s flower shop in Bristol.

  She checked her watch again: 4.10 a.m. The streets were still empty, and she stopped to listen carefully. A bus or a taxi would be good right now. In the distance she thought she heard a car engine accelerating away; it sounded like the last person on Earth just leaving.

  Alone, cold, lost, Ray walked on. She didn’t even know what direction she should go in. She thought she knew Cardiff quite well, but it all looked different at four in the morning and she guessed she was probably slightly drunk.

  How else could she explain why she was so lost? The party had been in a house owned by another student’s parents who were away on holiday. There had been forty or fifty people in that house, with loads of booze, music, sex (probably) and the chance to emerge dazed and tired in the early hours of the morning. And then get hopelessly lost.

  The house was somewhere around Cyncoed, she was pretty certain of that. Or was it Llanedeyrn? Her halls of residence were just off Colum Road but that might as well have been Glasgow from here.

  Ray cursed herself for not leaving with Wynnie when she’d had the chance. Wynnie had left at half one. A sensible time. Wynnie would be home by now, probably asleep in a nice warm bed, an empty cup of cocoa on the floor.

  Ray crossed a road called Carner Lane and cut through between a small row of semis to another avenue. If she followed the slope of the road down, she thought she would at least be heading back into the city centre. She could pick up a taxi on the way if necessary.

  Twenty minutes later she was still lost, had still not seen or heard any sign of another living thing and was seriously starting to worry. She hurried past a small patch of scrubby grass surrounded by old, bent railings covered in rust.

  Where was everyone? Just because it was 4.30-ish in the morning, and freezing cold, didn’t mean that everyone was tucked up in bed like Wynnie, surely? What about the shift workers? Police? Anyone?

  Ray turned a corner at random, her trainers scuffing the tarmac with short, panicky steps. She was pretty scared now. She thought about phoning Gillian but, quite apart from the fact that Ray didn’t want to endure a drunken ‘I told you so’ conversation, Gillian was famously useless in a crisis. Ray felt she had to speak to someone, though, so she took out her mobile and dialled Wynnie instead.

  The phone rang a few times and then switched to voicemail: ‘Wynnie. Call you back. Bye.’

  Ray snapped the phone shut with a curse and cut across a square surrounded by a line of old, bare trees. There was a building up ahead – she couldn’t see it very clearly in the dark, but perhaps there would be a bus stop or something on the far side.

  She cut quickly through the trees and then stopped in her tracks.

  She had stumbled across some kind of derelict church – it was practically in ruins, surrounded by some trees and scrubby grass and cracked pavements.

  And there were people here.

  A dozen or so, standing silently in the gloom. They were wearing long coats and top hats. Some held walking sticks or canes. Something about the whole scene made Ray’s insides turn cold. Perhaps it was the clothes, which, on closer inspection, looked old and stained, with frayed hems and ragged sleeves. Their heads appeared to be wrapped in dark scarves and they were wearing sunglasses, which was odd at 4.30 in the morning. The lenses of the nearest man flashed in the streetlights as he turned to look at Ray.

  She wanted to turn and run, she really did, but she just couldn’t move. Something made her stand and stare back at him.

  His face was completely hidden by the filthy bandages wound all around his head. His eyes were concealed behind the glasses, but he seemed to be looking straight at her, almost through her. Ray felt her skin crawling. Then the man raised his arm – showing his hand to be encased in threadbare gloves mottled with greasy stains – and this seemed to be a signal for the others to move.

  Because, most oddly, the men were all standing in two distinct lines, as if they were in some kind of a procession. The leading men, the ones holding the long, spear-tipped canes, began to march forward at a slow, steady pace.

  And at that moment Ray saw the whole thing for what it was, in a moment of chilling clarity.

  It was a funeral cortège. Because the final six men were carrying a long, glass-walled casket as if they were pallbearers.

  And as it drew alongside, Ray could see the contents of the casket, illuminated by the harsh yellow street light above.

  She stared, long and hard, unable to look away. Her heart was pounding in her chest and the contents of her stomach churned.

  Then she turned and threw up on the pavement.

  LAST CHANCE

  THREE

  His mouth was full of soil.

  He’d been screaming, and the wet earth had gone straight in. He choked and tried to get up, but the weight of the dirt was too much. More soil poured down, stones and twigs bouncing off his skull and worms twisting around his face and neck.

  He had to get out. He was lying in a grave for Christ’s sake, and he was being buried alive. He had to get out.

  But the soil kept coming, and eventually he couldn’t see anything. The weight was incredible – cold, wet, heavy earth, pressing down on his face and chest like a giant heel grinding him deeper into the hole.

  There was grit in his eyes and ears and he couldn’t even move now, let alone breathe. The dirt closed over his head, and for a while all he could hear was the muffled thump of each shovelful landing on top of him and the thick rush of blood in his head. He was going to die.

  Again.

  How long would it take this time? How long would it take to die – and how long would it take to live?

  ‘Jack?’

  He lurched awake with a sudden, vast gulp of air. It was dark, but there was nothing on top of him other than a bed sheet.

  ‘Bad dream?’ Gwen Cooper asked. She was standing at the end of his bed, watching him, smiling.

  ‘Yeah. I get a lot of those now.’

  ‘It’s only to be expected,’ Gwen told him. She sat down on the bed next to him, naked. ‘After all you’ve been through.’

  Jack smiled and reached out to her, stroking the bare flesh of her arm. It was cool and creamy in the darkness. Her hair hung like a thick black curtain over her shoulders, and her eyes glittered. Jack’s gaze travelled down her face and neck, examining the curves, looking for any imperfections and finding none.

  ‘You are wonderful,’ he told her truthfully.

  ‘I know,’ she whispered, leaning in to take his kiss. Jack reached up, cupping the back of her head in his hand and pressing his lips onto hers. She tasted of clear mountain stream water, cold and refreshing and full of life. Jack pulled her down onto the bed, turning her over so that he could look down into her eyes.

  Gwen’s eyes were incredible; huge, dark pools that could take you down, deeper than Time. She gazed up at him, languid and adoring. He kissed her again, climbing on top of her.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked, without quite knowing why. A twinge of guilt?

  ‘They’re dead, Jack,’ she replied. ‘They’re all dead.’

  Jack frowned. He wanted to kiss her again, but something was niggling at the back of his mind. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘Do you
forgive me, Jack?’ Gwen asked.

  ‘Forgive you?’ He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘What for?’

  ‘Killing them all, of course. You can be so silly at times, can’t you, Jack?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I had to make the choice. Remember? I had to kill one person to save everyone else. That was the choice you gave me.’

  ‘Choice?’

  She was smiling at him in the darkness but she was hurting him as well. Her fingernails were digging into the flesh of his shoulders like claws, and now he realised that the warm, tickling sensation on the skin of his back was not the gentle caress of her fingertips, but the blood running out of the scratches she had made.

  ‘Gwen!’ he gasped, like a lover in climax. ‘Let go!’

  ‘I’ll never let you go, Jack,’ she told him, and the claws sunk deeper into his flesh until he could feel them scraping on the bones of his shoulders. He tried to push himself off her, but she was hanging on with a fierce, agonising grip. Her legs folded around his waist and suddenly he felt as if she was going to crush him.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Never.’

  She was still smiling, her face completely relaxed and showing no sign of strain. And yet Jack was pulling away from her with all his strength. The muscles were hardening under his skin, sinews straining, but it had no effect. He might have been a child in her arms. He started to cry, tears falling onto her face. She laughed and opened her mouth to catch them.

  ‘Please!’ Jack cried. ‘Please stop!’

  ‘I killed them all, Jack,’ she repeated. ‘Every last human being on the planet. It’s just us now – you and me. And I’ll never let you go.’

  ‘The hell you won’t!’ Jack roared. He closed his hands around her neck and squeezed, pushing his thumbs deep into the soft part of her throat to close off the windpipe. He gritted his teeth and bore down on her, determined to kill.

  But she just smiled at him as if she couldn’t feel pain and didn’t need to breathe.

  And then something occurred to him, a tiny detail that was as obvious now as the pain from his lacerated back: she had no pulse. He had his fingers clamped around her neck and he could not feel a pulse. She was already dead. But she hadn’t stopped smiling.

  When she opened her mouth, he saw that it was full of earth, black and crumbling and twisting with moist, pink life. With a final, choking cry Jack tore himself free, hurling himself off her, tangled up in the sweat-cold sheets.

  ‘Bad dream?’ asked Ianto politely.

  Jack sat up abruptly, blinking in the sudden bright light. He was panting hard and he could feel the perspiration on his neck and chest. The sheets were twisted around him but he was alone in the bed.

  Ianto stood at the base of the bed, suited and booted. He looked ready for business. ‘I don’t dream,’ said Jack eventually. It had taken a while to get his breath back. ‘I don’t even sleep. Not properly. You know that.’

  Ianto gently placed the fresh mug of coffee on the bedside table. ‘What are you doing in bed, then? Alone, I mean?’

  Jack watched Ianto warily for a few seconds before replying. ‘I don’t know. Thinking. Drifting. Dreaming, I suppose.’

  ‘Sometimes I think you could do with some proper sleep.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Jack picked up the coffee and sipped it, considering. ‘It was a nightmare.’ He sounded confused, as if a nightmare was the very last thing he expected. ‘I was being buried alive. No surprise there, I guess. But this was . . . different . . .’ He didn’t want to go into any detail about Gwen now. That was one fantasy that had to be kept under lock and key.

  ‘Perhaps it was the pizza last night. Too much cheese before bedtime.’

  Jack shook his head, not in the mood for jokes. ‘How’s Gwen?’

  ‘Fine – as far as I know. Rhys has gone to a hauliers’ convention or something in Gloucester. She misses him but otherwise she’s OK. Why? Shouldn’t she be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Ianto started to lay Jack’s clothes out. ‘Gwen told me about the alien at Tommy Greenway’s funeral last week. I believe we can expect another visit from our friends at Hokrala.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jack climbed out of bed. He was naked, and Ianto suddenly felt absurdly overdressed in his three-piece pinstripe and silk tie. But Jack didn’t seem to notice. ‘That’s not what’s bothering me,’ he said.

  ‘Then what is?’

  Jack headed for the shower. ‘When you’ve lived in one place for long enough you get a feeling for it. You can tell when something’s wrong.’

  He ran the water and stepped behind the frosted glass. Steam filled the cubicle as the water heated up and Jack became a pink blur.

  ‘And something is wrong, then?’ Ianto asked.

  ‘You said it. There’s so much coming through the Rift at the moment – it doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘It has been unusually active recently,’ Ianto agreed, taking a notebook out of his pocket and flipping it open. ‘We’ve been rushed off our feet since Jackson Leaves and the xXltttxtolxtol. And of course, um, Agnes . . .’

  Jack flinched, but Ianto carried on regardless.

  ‘Then there was the Greenway funeral, and the Fairwater Death Sticks. There’s been a Grolon rat infestation in Butetown. Couple of Blowfish low-lifes loose in Splott. Our electrical friend in Cell One . . . The list goes on. In fact, we’ve never been so busy.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Jack said, splashing. The water had flattened his hair over his face. ‘But it’s not that. There’s something else.’

  Ianto watched the islands of soap lather shift like continents over the vague shape of Jack’s chest before being rinsed away.

  ‘I don’t know what it is,’ Jack continued, ‘but I can feel it. Something bad is coming our way, Ianto.’

  Ianto watched for another full minute as Jack let the hot water stream down his shoulders and back before asking, ‘Care for some company in there?’

  Jack’s blue eyes flicked open, the lashes thick and wet. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not right now.’

  FOUR

  Ray was sitting in Wynnie’s flat, hugging a cushion.

  ‘You look totally wrecked,’ observed Wynnie. He placed a mug of tea on the low table in front of her.

  Ray didn’t even look up. Her fingers were white where they dug into the old velveteen cushion.

  Wynnie cleared a space on the coffee table, pushing aside a pile of music magazines, research papers and empty cans of Red Bull so he could sit down. Then he faced Ray and stared at her until she did look up.

  ‘Never thought I’d see the day when you were lost for words,’ he told her. ‘Must’ve been a hell of a party.’

  ‘Hell of a party,’ she repeated dully. ‘Good one.’

  ‘Here,’ Wynnie pushed the tea towards her. ‘Drink. It’s got sugar in it. Looks like you could do with it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re in shock. That much is obvious. Drink the tea and then tell me what happened. From the beginning. From when you left the party.’

  He gently removed the cushion and gave her the mug of tea.

  ‘I think I saw a little bit of hell last night,’ she said.

  ‘Care to expand on that?’

  So she told him. Everything.

  When she’d finished, pale and trembling, she sipped the tea. Wynnie sat back and stuck out his bottom lip. On anyone else it would look like a sulk. On Wynnie, it meant he was thinking. Behind the lip rings, tongue piercing, eyebrow studs and blond dreadlocks, there was a first-class brain breezing through the final year of a postgraduate Chemistry course. Some people said Wynnie was only doing the Ph.D. in his spare time, when he wasn’t playing bass guitar in his band or drawing comics for the student rag.

  ‘So,’ Ray said at last. ‘Do you think I’m going bonkers, then? Cos I do.’

  ‘You’re sure no one slipped you anything at the party?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  �
��No one tampered with your drinks?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘You didn’t drop any tabs? Not even E?’

  ‘Nothing. I was a tiny bit pissed but that’s all. Not so I couldn’t walk home on my own. Just a bit. . . you know. . .’

  ‘And this thing in the casket. . .’

  Ray’s eyes snapped shut. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Not any more. I don’t even want to think about it.’

  ‘OK. Fine. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go back to the place you saw these guys, now, in broad daylight. Check it out, see if there’s anything there.’

  Ray opened an eye, glared suspiciously at him. ‘What, like evidence you mean?’

  ‘I dunno. Anything. You never know.’

  ‘There won’t be anything. It all just disappeared. Like a. . . like a. . .’

  ‘Dream?’

  ‘Like a nightmare.’

  FIVE

  The SUV cruised along Penarth Road with Jack at the wheel. He seemed distracted, braking late and accelerating with undue aggression. The engine growled impatiently as the big black chassis muscled its way through the morning traffic.

  In the passenger seat, Gwen was reloading a customised automatic. It was a Glock 19, a compact, lightweight nylon-based polymer-frame pistol Ianto had given her to field-test. She snapped a full magazine into the butt – fifteen rounds of tungsten-core 9mm parabellum – and pulled back the slide to load the first cartridge into the firing chamber.

  ‘So, these Hokrala people. We met them last year, didn’t we?’ she asked.

  ‘The last time we saw them was just after the Strepto hag business,’ Ianto confirmed from the rear seat. He was examining the computer displays mounted into the backs of the front seats. ‘We get a visit almost every year. They’re lawyers, apparently. From the future.’