The House That Jack Built: The House That Jack Built t-12

by Guy Adams

  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 many 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 (though 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.

  They were not feeling rational.

  Rob's fingers dug into the pale flesh of Julia's shoulder, pressing bright white crescents into the pink of her skin as the house continued to beat around them. Julia wasn't in the least surprised to catch the smell of onions on her tongue, she had no doubt the fat man was pressing his weight against the other side of the door at that very moment.

  It was Ianto, opening eyes crusty and chill with the rime of frost, that spotted the danger coming from the lit rug. He rolled off the sofa, an awkward grunt knocked out of him as his limbs refused to hold him up, dragged himself by his elbows and rolled onto the tiny fire, his damp suit hissing as it extinguished the flames. His mind was slow to function, but somewhere right on the periphery of his awareness — and even above the noise of the television — he heard a familiar engine outside the house, the heavy wheels grinding gravel beneath them. He heard two doors slam closed, and the sound of boots running towards the front door. He tried to move but pins and needles rioted through his body, as frantic as the TV static that threw its light onto his face.

  'They're here,' he whispered, as the pounding in the walls suddenly stopped to be replaced by a far more comforting knock on the door.

  ELEVEN

  'It was one of those stupid moments when I thought I might like to put down roots.' Jack's hands were moving at great speed, grabbing what to Gwen seemed a random selection of wires and components from the metal shelving. 'They don't happen often, and when they do I stamp on them quick. They cause nothing but trouble.'

  'And mortgage payments,' Gwen chipped in, opening the large canvas bag wider so that Jack could drop everything in.

  'It seemed a good idea at the time. It was a nice place, and I could afford it.'

  'Bit big for a man on his own, perhaps?'

  'I like my space,' he replied with a grin. 'Besides, I often had compan
y.'

  Jack grabbed what looked like a tape deck and dropped it into the bag, making Gwen grunt with the weight.

  'I just bet you did.' She put the bag down and zipped it shut. 'What's all this stuff for anyway? Shouldn't we be on our way?'

  'I'm going as fast as I can!' Jack grabbed another bag. 'But we may need some of this stuff if we're going ghost-hunting.'

  'Who ya gonna call?' Gwen muttered, deadpan.

  'Torchwood!' Jack yelled, shouldering the second bag. 'To the Mystery Machine!'

  'Don't try and quote popular culture,' Gwen sighed. 'You always get it wrong.'

  'Never,' Jack laughed, heading out of the Hub. 'I am the man with his finger on the pulse.'

  'This from the man who thought Little Britain starred Tommy Handley…' Gwen replied, following after him.

  Down in the Autopsy Room, Alexander sighed and lifted his head from his examination of Danny Wilkinson's body.

  'Excuse me, children!' he shouted. 'May I remind you that some of us are trying to work down here?'

  He waited for a response, but the only one he got was the heavy Hub door rolling closed behind Jack and Gwen. The penny dropped. 'Oi!' he shouted. 'I'm still down here!' He dropped his scalpel next to Danny's sliced kidneys and pounded his fist on the examination table. 'Bloody typical …'

  ***

  Gwen often moaned that Jack drove like he did everything in life: aggressively, theatrically and at enough speed that he hoped people wouldn't notice the rough edges. He had never had an accident, but Gwen wasn't sure why not; he seemed to be working very hard at it after all. Ianto had told her about the number of speeding tickets the police sent to the dummy license address — it was a morning's work every few weeks hacking into the system and making them all vanish again.