Torchwood: First Born

by Goss, James

  ‘Can I help you?’ she prompted gently.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for nappies. Bit of a crisis.’

  ‘No,’ she said after a long pause. Which was odd. But the way she said the word was even odder. Very firm.

  ‘Not to worry,’ I said. ‘You know what babies are like.’

  ‘Not really,’ she replied, her fingernails digging away at the oil cloth covering the counter.

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘We’re staying at the caravan park. Mobile home a friend gave us the keys to. For a bit.’

  ‘I see.’ Her tone was disapproving.

  I decided to win her over. After all, she had the monopoly on crisps and chocolate for five miles. I turned on the full charm, learned her name (Mrs Meredith) and tried ever so hard to make the old dear smile. But smile came there none. Her lips just got tighter and tighter as my small talk petered out. An awkward silence settled between us, and my gaze drifted down to the foam bananas. Inspiration struck. ‘Got any papers?’

  Mrs Meredith dug under the counter and dropped a pile of newspapers on the counter with an impressive thump. Ah, news – lovely. With no internet and half a digital telly channel, we were finding it hard keeping up with current events. It’d been a while since I’d seen a paper. I picked through them.

  ‘Oh, “Lady Gaga link to Cancer”?’

  Mrs Meredith tutted. ‘Yes I know. Shocking isn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody unbelievable,’ I said, a bit too crossly.

  We looked at each other. I was sharply reminded of the time when a hairdresser asked me if I had any pets. ‘No, no,’ I’d told him. ‘If I did, it’d probably be a dog. And just the one, though. You don’t want to be one of those mad people with three cats now, do you?’

  To which, inevitably, the hairdresser had replied, ‘I have three cats myself, actually,’ and got on with cutting my hair.

  It was a similar, awkward feeling.

  I bought a copy of the paper anyway, and grabbed a Mars bar as well. Walking back up the hill, I suddenly realised how wrong this was. I should have got two. But I hadn’t. And if I had, Gwen would have said how whey protein or e-numbers or whatever would get into her milk and Kill The Baby. But I couldn’t just walk back in with one bar. It would look selfish, and I didn’t much fancy going back to the shop.

  So I ate the chocolate bar in the rain as I walked home. I took a little wander round the village. Scoping out my territory. A crummy pub with a peeling plastic sign advertising sport, some houses that seemed to be fifty years old, a church. Someone whizzed past me on a bike – dark hair, wrapped up against the weather, Celtic-looking. Teenager. A bit of life. I nodded, but he didn’t nod back, just cycled down the road and away. Oh-kaaaayy.

  I walked on a little further. No rain, really. Another kid went past on another bike. Or was it the same kid, same bike? I tried saying hello, but again no answer. Just a dark-haired boy pedalling off down the street.

  A battered jeep rattled past, driven erratically by the scatty-looking lady I’d seen in the village shop. As she drove past, she stared at me. As though it was odd seeing a stranger around. Welcome to your new home, I thought.

  I went back up the hill, vaguely aware that someone was watching me. But no one I could see. Perhaps it was the kid on the bike. But I couldn’t see him. Just a vague sense of unease, of being followed.

  I passed those strange flowers again, and paused, trying to work out what their smell was. Farty dog and boiled cabbage – mixed with a strange muskiness that reminded me of the BO of a lorry driver I used to work with. A smell that you could chew.

  I walked through the caravan graveyard and wrestled open the door, trying to climb in before I let out all the heat. Gwen nodded to me as she woke up from a nap. ‘No nappies,’ I explained. ‘Looks like we’re due a trip out. This place is weird.’

  Gwen

  I dreamed that it was raining burning cars.

  One by one they fell from the night sky, almost drifting before they bounced a bit on the tarmac.

  Walking between them with surprising grace was a handsome man in an old military uniform. He looked like a freshly retired model, only he was carrying a very large gun and shooting casually up into the sky. His name was Captain Jack Harkness.

  I couldn’t quite see where the burning cars were coming from, but they were raining down thick and fast.

  ‘Over there,’ said a voice beside me. I turned. A young man, impossibly neat and dapper, stood next to me, straightening his already symmetrical tie. This was Ianto Jones. It was a hot summer’s night but he was wearing a three-piece suit and holding a rocket launcher like it was a furled-up umbrella.

  Jack, Ianto, Gwen. We were Torchwood. We were saving the world. Right now.

  I looked behind me to where something very large, angry and made of flame was throwing the cars off the motorway bridge. As far as I could tell, the vehicles were abandoned. I hoped they were. Most of them landed near us but I watched as a flaming Saab fell short and vanished into the river with a pfssht as it extinguished.

  Jack dodged a melting people-carrier and sauntered up to us. ‘Gwen Cooper!’ he boomed. ‘Glad you made it. Did you remember the bomb?’

  ‘Of course she remembered the bomb,’ muttered Ianto. ‘Gwen never forgets.’

  ‘Silly me.’ Jack smiled like we were having fun. Which, oddly, I guess we were. ‘Right then, let’s go to work.’

  I woke up as Rhys came in, letting all the warmth out while he cludged around taking his shoes off and grunting at me. He had chocolate round his chops – bet he thought that was the perfect crime. Oh, I’d kill for some chocolate. Or a nice bit of cake. Christmas cake with rum and marzipan. Bet I’m not allowed any of the ingredients of that. Or maybe they’ve changed their minds over the weekend – like they do. For all I know, it’s probably compulsory to eat blue cheese and raw shellfish by the scoopful. I stared glumly at the paper he’d plonked down on the counter. It was just bound to contain yet more things which will INSTANTLY KILL YOUR BABY.

  I’d rather not risk it, thanks.

  So it looked like Rhys and I would be off to the supermarket. That much I knew. I could have let him go on his own, but I didn’t dare. He’d probably have come back with a bag of chips and some magic beans.

  We clambered into the car and drove away. Well, I say that. We fitted the child seat, stuffed the back full of nappies, wipes, bin bags, a change of clothes for Anwen and a couple of spare sweaters in case one of us got a hasty respray, blankets, rugs, her favourite little plastic thing… all of it fetched from the caravan. Rhys thinks I should store it all in the car, but I never quite get round to sorting it out, and I keep telling him ‘Ah, it won’t take a minute.’ To think we used to just dive into cars and roar off, outrunning Scary Men In Black Cars. These days we couldn’t even escape a milk float without a fortnight’s notice.

  We drove away from Rawbone, and I had an urge to say ‘Let’s not go back.’ There’d be a reason why we had keys to that desolate caravan. There was always a reason why Torchwood had keys. Sometimes it was to store files or things best forgotten. Sometimes it was unfinished business. Rawbone had an air about it of unfinished business. It looked so forlorn.

  Three weeks later…

  Rhys had planted potatoes. It was like he’d settled. I was even letting him off the leash – you know, going down the pub for an evening pint. It spared me from having him hang around the caravan all the time like a pining dog. Of course, bless him, he was so knackered, two pints and he would be plastered.

  He’d made friends, though. That was nice. Although I hoped I would never meet any of them. I love Rhys dearly, but it’s like he gets his mates from a pound shop. His new friends would all be from North Wales, so god knew what they’d be called – they name their kids anything around here – Bluebell, Lorry, Tesco Clubcard.

  The great thing was it gave him a little bit of freedom and me the chance to sneak a cheeky nap. Which was nice.

  It was too good to last. He h
ad an airy, casual look to him as he put the bottles in the steriliser. ‘Hey, hey! How are the two women in my life?’ he asked.

  ‘One is asleep, the other is dead on her feet,’ I said.

  ‘What you girls need is a break. A change of scenery.’ A pause. A spontaneous grin. Here it bloody comes. ‘I know! Let’s go down the pub.’

  I waved this away quickly. ‘No, no, you go. Go on.’

  But Rhys stood his ground. ‘It’s like you’re in prison here. Come on, love, we can do this. How long is it since you’ve been out on a proper trip?’

  I tried to answer. ‘Lots, I’ve been out loads!’

  ‘Not counting shopping or nipping to the garage.’

  ‘Oh,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Or wheeling her around the caravan park in the pram.’

  ‘Damn.’ I laughed.

  Rhys smiled, triumphant. ‘It will be Fun. And if it isn’t, I promise you can never let me hear the last of it.’

  ‘Can I make your life hell?’ I grinned.

  He nodded. ‘Get your coat, pet.’

  Of course, Rhys hadn’t quite got the new baby thing – he was still impatiently bouncing Tigger Rhys, assuming that it takes me longer to get ready than him because… well, it’s what women do. But it’s not like that. Not with Anwen. Everything just takes so much time.

  ‘I’ll give her a change,’ he offered like it was an offer to dance on hot coals.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I waved him away. ‘But I’m going to feed her before we go out. I am not popping out a boob in public. Not ready for that yet.’

  I caught Rhys’s expression. ‘Do not say anything. Especially not about getting turned on.’

  ‘Would not dream of it,’ he vowed with a smirk.

  We made it out of the caravan in just under forty minutes (which was good going) and rolled the pram down into the village. I wrinkled my nose at a sudden stench. ‘Is that Anwen?’

  Rhys grinned. ‘Nah, it’s the stink thistles. That’s what they call them.’ He pointed to a patch of green by the roadside. ‘They’re all around the village. God alone knows what they’ll smell like in summer.’

  ‘Do they have summer here?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  We pottered down the road towards the solitary street lamp. ‘So what’s the occasion?’ I asked Rhys.

  He smiled. ‘A welcome party. For us. It’s a surprise.’

  Surprise Party. Those two words fill me with alarm almost as much as Alien Invasion.

  As soon as I saw the pub, I knew what it was going to be like. It was one of those places – you think that a country pub should be an ancient building, possibly thatched with a sign swinging gently in the breeze. But this was a single-storey, red-brick rectangle with a name picked out in gold letters (‘Y Gwyr’), and a satellite dish stapled to the flat roof. Someone had long ago decided, ‘Fine, this’ll do.’

  Well, it was an OK pub, actually. Not exactly ‘Ooh, there be strangers in these parts,’ but not in any danger of being mistaken for a wine bar, either. It was a box of people and booze. The benches were buttoned-green pleather that had been chewed over by a fair few dogs, the floor was covered in that weird crunchy black carpet you only see in pubs. The odd tuft of tinsel was still sellotaped to the artex ceiling. Billboards were covered with creased adverts with tear-off phone numbers. Music played. I say music – a kind of easy-listening cock rock. The Eagles doing a salute to an album of panpipes covers.

  The thing that struck me as we walked in was the sound of real spoken Welsh. North Wales, the land where Welsh is a living language and not a plaything for making personal calls at work and getting great customer service off British Gas. You can be as fluent as you like in Welsh, but if you come from Cardiff, the first time you hit North Wales it’s quite a shock. It’s not exactly a different language, but I guess it’d be like an Ancient Roman turning up in modern Italy and discovering that Latin’s had the builders in.

  I tried earwigging, but caught only the odd word and then realised it was petering out, gently fading into English as people noticed me and Rhys. I heard baban a few times, though. That was one word I knew. I wondered… was it Anwen they were talking about?

  Rhys settled us around a table sticky with spilt beer. Sat across from us were two men called Josh and Tom who were grinning nervously in that ‘hello, I am going to try and make friends with you’ way that people do.

  Interesting.

  What the hell were these two doing in the middle of Nowhere, North Wales? Tom was tiny, with red hair that went everywhere and Josh was so poised even his teeth looked ironed. He was also…

  ‘Indian,’ said Josh, catching my look, which made me feel bad. ‘They were advertising for some diversity, and they got a gay Indian.’

  ‘Who was born in New Zealand,’ put in Tom happily.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘But what made you come here?’

  ‘Oh…’ Josh squeezed Tom’s shoulder. ‘We met on a night out in Swansea. I said, “Take me to paradise,” and he brought me here…’ Josh sighed. ‘I would have settled for one grubby night of passion in a Travelodge. But sadly it wasn’t to be.’

  ‘I work here,’ admitted Tom awkwardly.

  ‘I raise our cat and do some really disastrous things to ladies’ hair in the nearest town. Not for money. It’s just a hobby.’ Josh leant over and poked Rhys in the gut. ‘Get us some drinks, big fella.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Rhys started to slouch to the bar.

  ‘And yes, we will be talking about you,’ Tom called after him.

  Rhys steered almost unconsciously towards a young woman wearing a leopard-print micro-skirt and a denim jacket. She was looking up at the old television, and carefully not paying any attention to Rhys. God love you, girl, I thought, you’re so bloody obvious. Luckily, I’d trained Rhys well and he barely cast her a glance.

  Josh played with Anwen, while Tom kept an impressive amount of distance. He looked at me apologetically. ‘Sorry, Gwen, I’m just terrified I’d break her. It is a her, yeah?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Would you like to hold her?’

  Tom shook his head hurriedly.

  Josh glanced up from hypnotising Anwen with his fingers. ‘Don’t take offence, Gwen. Tom’s clumsy. He can’t make toast without breaking eggs.’

  Tom said, ‘That’s not true. I mowed the lawn.’

  ‘And won’t stop going on about it.’ Josh held up Anwen and stared into her eyes. ‘So, Rhys says your mummy was a policewoman.’

  Did he, now? ‘Yeah. But I have given up my life of fighting crime. For the moment. You know…’

  Tom fished out a phone and started fiddling with it. He caught my glance. ‘Oh, no reception for me either. Bloody rubbish, isn’t it? I’ve got used to that, but I refuse to give up Angry Birds.’ He was soon immersed in it while Josh and I played with Anwen.

  We talked on. Rhys brought over the drinks. I sipped at a lime and soda. Rhys drank his pint like he was an 8-year-old chugging juice. Despite myself, I was having trouble staying awake. Yawn after yawn crept out from behind my hands, but I made a game effort to look as wide awake as possible. Tonight was kind of fun, really, but I was just so tired and the room was so dark.

  People came and stopped by the table. I felt a bit like I was being paid court to. But it was mostly Anwen. There was Mrs Harries, a nice lady of a certain age who ran a small school (‘But we won’t be seeing you for a good few years, will we, young lady?’ she said to Anwen, which just about summed Mrs Harries up). A young couple drifted in – the kind of people that reminded me of folks from the Valleys come to Cardiff for a nose round the shopping centre – tall Davydd in sports gear and wet-look hair gel who stared at the ground, and a girl called Sasha who claimed to be a victim of Josh’s hair stylings. She didn’t stop at the table long, and seemed a bit nervous, as though she was intruding, or scared of me.

  Sasha went over to the bar, but as far away as she could from the girl in the leopard print. Interesting. She looked like she was dr
essed for the Battle of St Mary Street (fought in Cardiff city centre, every weekend). Yet she was sat here on her own, laughing very loudly at whatever was said to her. She glanced in my direction once, and smiled. It was a warning smile. You know the kind I mean – Keep Your Distance, Thanks.

  ‘Odd,’ I remarked.

  ‘Nah,’ muttered Tom, snicking open a pack of crisps. ‘That’s just Nerys. She’s getting oiled before catching the bus to the Tango.’

  ‘What’s the Tango?’

  ‘Winner of the Worst Club In North Wales since 2007,’ groaned Josh. ‘Full of puking teenagers, farmers having a mid-life crisis and Nerys. She’s been a fixture longer than the pole-dancing pole.’

  ‘Do not ask.’ Tom helped himself to a handful of crisps and returned to Angry Birds.

  I turned to Rhys, who was on his second pint and as genial as the Buddha. ‘This is where you spend your evenings?’

  He shrugged. ‘Beats the caravan.’

  ‘Everything beats the caravan.’

  I heard a ker-click and a flicker at the corner of my retina. ‘Did someone just take a picture of us?’ I asked. The table shrugged. I was worried – who and why? Had Rhys and I been recognised?

  ‘You’re celebrities,’ grinned Tom, opening a fresh packet of crisps (where did he put it all?).

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nothing ever happens here,’ Josh sighed. ‘Imagine how they reacted when I first turned up!’ He pointed to the deep tan of his face. ‘First time they’d ever seen wheelie luggage.’

  I had to go to the bathroom to feed Anwen. It was the last thing I felt like doing in a roomful of strangers. I set up my stall – it’s a long and complicated business, made worse by the clothes. If men had to breastfeed there’d be something practical and shaping with lots of useful zips. As it is, you end up spending endless daydreaming hours cooking up a fetching dungaree-blouse-cardigan number. I unbuckled and plugged Anwen in, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked tired. And so fat. Like a whale. Like a whale in jeans with an elasticated waist. They were the highlight of my pregnancy and I wasn’t giving them up. Not until I’d miraculously shed all the extra pounds. I kept on telling myself it was just milk, but I suspected my sudden addiction to oven chips in the last few months of pregnancy was something to do with it.