Torchwood: First Born

by Goss, James

  ‘Progress!’ He was angry. ‘Tony Brown bloody attacked one of them.’

  ‘What? The policeman?’

  ‘Sexually…’ Tom paused. ‘Er… Like a sex-starved rabbit.’

  I felt a strange, chilly sensation. ‘Jeez,’ I said.

  ‘The kids picked up on it somehow and stopped it. But it was a close call.’

  ‘Oh my,’ I said. ‘That’s dreadful.’

  ‘I had Megan Harries round demanding something was done,’ Tom thundered. He raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a real problem, isn’t it, boss?’

  ‘The Williamses,’ I groaned. ‘And that’s why we introduced the policy of managed isolation.’ I drummed my fingers on a computer casing turned grey with age. ‘Rawbone has been gradually closed off from the outside world. I knew that having strangers appear would interfere with the data set.’

  ‘Data set?’ Tom was shouting. ‘They’re people! The poor woman was bloody traumatised. She was nearly raped.’

  Oh my gosh. ‘Yeah.’ I held up a hand. ‘Yeah,’ I repeated. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘Kind of,’ said Tom. ‘I dragged Josh round there last night so I could check on her. Hence the hangover.’

  ‘And the baby?’ I felt a knot of tension in my stomach.

  ‘Oh, the child is fine as well. It could have been a lot worse.’

  Sebastian spoke up. ‘The Scions stopped it going too far.’ He looked up from reloading a printer. ‘They have followed your standing protocols. A further incident was prevented last night.’

  ‘A further incident?’ Tom was alarmed.

  Sebastian flicked through a printout, ‘The husband went round to the policeman’s house.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ Tom growled. ‘But… when I left them…’

  Sebastian passed me the printout. ‘The incident was contained… without further harm,’ he said.

  ‘By who?’ asked Tom.

  I leafed through the sheets of green-and-white striped paper. ‘Jenny.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Tom.

  I knew what he meant. There was something atypical about that girl. Ah well. She was growing up.

  ‘Right then,’ I said, sensing any plans I’d had for the day slipping away. ‘Tom, can you make sure the Williamses are watched like a hawk? We want them to be OK.’

  ‘Yay,’ said Tom, clapping his hands together like a flamenco dancer. ‘More boozing it is.’

  ‘And Sebastian, can you bring me any relevant information on these incidents? Sounds like an interesting near miss. I can actually work all this up into a report for Jasmine the Terrible. We have a perfect set of data here on their containment of aggressive action. That should keep her off our backs for months.’

  ‘Really?’ said Tom, his mouth twisted with slight distaste. I knew how bad it sounded. But it could be a lot worse.

  ‘I hope so.’ I felt weary, so weary. ‘I really hope so.’

  Gwen

  The dreams got odder. Like I was falling into a strange world where everything was broken. Where the streets of Cardiff were almost empty. First there’d been the strange shadow that had spread over the land, wiping out whoever it touched. Then, not even a year later, one of the Welsh nuclear power stations had blown up. No one had been there to stop it. That had taken out a lot more people.

  Those that were left lived out strange lives that got even stranger when something dreadful happened to the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland. While back in Cardiff reports spread of terrible things occurring – of cannibal cults marching towards the city, of fearsome beasts emerging from the sewers to hunt down the survivors.

  Frankly, it was a bit of a mercy when those aliens turned up offering to take our children away. We wanted them to have a better life somewhere else.

  Because this planet was finished. Without Torchwood.

  I woke up in a lot of pain. OK, a true fact about being an Earth Mother is that it’s bloody painful. Gaia – if it’s not agony, you’re doing it wrong. Breastfeeding is one of those things. I mean, clearly, boys, if you’re reading this, you’ve crossed your legs and your testicles have crawled back inside your pelvis, but breasts are not just jolly fun bags. They have a purpose.

  It is to make my life hell.

  I used to have an alarm clock. I don’t bother any more. When my breasts are full, I wake up. It’s not that ‘Ooh, quite fancy a pee’ thing you get in the middle of the night. No. It’s a John-Hurt-In-Alien sensation. Good morning world, my boobs are exploding.

  I staggered into the living room, a breast pad stuck to my cheek (one always gets there in the middle of the night, dunno how, but I hope Rhys likes his wife smelling a tiny bit like a cheese slice). In the old days, before AD (Anwen Domini), I often used to find Rhys asleep on the sofa, half a bottle of warm beer still held in his hands. Now he’s clutching a baby bottle.

  Anwen, of course, was in full-on angelic mode, just starting to stir. I picked her up, plugged her in to feed. Her eyes fixed on mine for an instant, then rolled up into her head. She looked truly, blissfully happy.

  Once she was back in her cot, I popped the kettle on. Sod what the paper says this week, I’d have coffee. I’d gotten used to having instant again. Shame. I missed proper coffee. More, I missed those days when someone made it for me. No matter how hung over, tired, or attacked by monsters, there’d always be a lovely cup waiting for me. Odd what you take for granted.

  I stood there. Life was all back to normal. I had managed not to think about bloody Tony Brown. About the weird kids in the village. It’s one of the advantages of your brain turning to post-baby mush. Some days I can’t even really remember my own name.

  On cue, Rhys woke up as the kettle boiled and I handed him a mug. He was about to ask me to put some toast on, but I already had. For I am woman, and multitasking is my superpower. It also took my mind off how sore my nipples were, but let’s not go there. They say geranium leaves are brilliant for it, but you tell me where I’m supposed to get a geranium leaf in a caravan park in North Wales and I will give you a shiny silver dollar.

  Rhys looked a bit rumpled. ‘You OK?’ I asked him.

  ‘How about you?’ he countered.

  I just nodded.

  He nodded back, a bit shifty and buttered his toast. I’d find out later.

  There was a knock at the door, and I opened it instinctively. Foolish, rookie error – forgetting the danger in the village, the men hunting me. I was just too stupidly tired. I wasn’t even thinking about the infant clasped to my breast. Standing there was a girl, holding out a newspaper. Early teenage years, but really neatly turned out. Dark hair in no need of straighteners, school uniform worn like no one ever wears school uniform, skin perfect in the way that no 15-year-old has. Right, one of the Scions. I’d met her yesterday, at Mrs Harries’s house.

  ‘Jenny?’ said Rhys.

  I arched an eyebrow. I was not sure how I felt about my husband being on chatty terms with attractive young girls.

  Jenny stood waiting on the step, her smile pleasant, and expectant. ‘Good morning, Mr Williams. Good morning, Mrs Williams. And how are you today?’

  She was making eye contact. No teenage girl makes eye contact. How can these creatures ever have hoped to pass for human?

  ‘Jenny Meredith, isn’t it?’ I said brightly.

  Jenny nodded. ‘My mother sent me from the shop to ask if there was anything you would like fetching and also to give you this.’ She held out the newspaper. It was open at page 5, with a headline circled in highlighter. I could just read ‘-stfeeding risk’. Great.

  ‘Come on in, have a cup of coffee.’

  Jenny came in, her eyes processing the inside of the caravan critically. It reminded me of whenever Rhys’s mother used to visit our old flat. No matter where we cleaned, there’d always be a spot that we’d missed. Jenny’s eyes settled on Anwen, fascinated. She politely sipped at a cup of coffee.

  ‘How are you this morning, Mr Williams?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ murmured Rhys, his
face changing gear to there’s-something-I-should-have-told-you-Gwen-but-maybe-I’ll-get-away-with-it. Oh, Rhys, love. You will never get away with it.

  ‘I am pleased that you are well,’ said Jenny.

  ‘And why wouldn’t he be?’ I asked pointedly, watching Rhys shrink a little.

  Jenny considered the question for a moment. ‘Last night Mr Williams attacked our policeman.’

  ‘Oh, he did, did he?’ I loved the big, stupid, wonderful fool.

  ‘Yes, I was worried that he would be hurt.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, and winked at Rhys. We would deal with this later. Lordy, there was loads to deal with later and not even a spaceship crashing out of the sky.

  ‘Can I hold your baby?’ Jenny asked suddenly. ‘I have never touched one. It would be interesting.’

  Hmm, love, a couple of points there. Mostly, don’t act like you might dissect my child.

  But I handed Anwen over. My baby girl was wearing that scrunched-up expression that boded really badly for anyone in a three-metre radius. Jenny was welcome to her.

  To start with, it was a bit touch and go.

  ‘I am sorry.’ Jenny’s tone was puzzled. ‘I am getting the centre of gravity wrong. Your child is also heavier than she looks.’ She paused. ‘Tell me, what is her mean atomic weight?’

  Even Rhys pulled a face at that, especially as Jenny seemed about to drop Anwen, but we managed a mid-air course correction between us, and, truth to tell, Anwen settled down happily in Jenny’s arms. Babies are like cats. No matter how much love and attention you lavish on them, they make a show of being happiest with strangers.

  ‘How old is this?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘She’s ten weeks,’ I said. Rhys, I noticed, had gone to put some more toast on. If he was hoping for distance, he’d best wait till we’d moved somewhere a tiny bit bigger than a large cupboard.

  Jenny nodded, interested.

  ‘And how old are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty,’ said Jenny. I heard Rhys pause, mid-butter scrape.

  ‘Wow,’ I said.

  Jenny looked down at herself, with a curious air of ‘What? This old thing?’ She shrugged. ‘This is how I was born. I have always looked like this. I wonder if I always will.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘No. That is why I said I wondered.’

  ‘Do you…’ I paused.

  Rhys took over, gently. ‘Do you know what you are, Jenny?’

  ‘I am a girl.’

  ‘No… but… the children of the village. You must know… that you’re not normal.’

  Jenny again paused. If she was a computer she’d have been displaying a gently spinning egg timer. ‘But we are normal. Your child is not. It is a different species. It is ageing rapidly. I am not. I am ageing at a much slower rate.’

  ‘Where do you come from?’ Rhys asked.

  Jenny smiled, the kind of smile you get at the building society when there’s been a tiny issue with your account. ‘The stork brought us. Or we were found under a gooseberry bush. It is not known.’

  ‘But surely you know that…?’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Jenny. ‘That sometimes when a Mummy Bee and a Daddy Bee like each other very much they do a little Baby Dance.’ She shook her head. ‘But that is not how I was made.’ She suddenly looked crestfallen. ‘Are there others like us in the world, do you think?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so. I think you’re very special, Jenny.’

  ‘Special?’ echoed Jenny, pleased. ‘I like that.’

  ‘What… Tell us about you,’ urged Rhys. ‘For instance, last night… Jenny… well, she’s very strong.’

  ‘I am no stronger than the others, but you grown-ups – your bodies and your minds are weaker than ours.’

  ‘Our minds?’ I gasped. Suddenly really worried. Rhys looked the same.

  Jenny glanced between us. Like she could read our thoughts. Could she? I felt cold. I felt horribly afraid. This thing… holding my daughter.

  Jenny blinked, as though pained. ‘Would you like Anwen back?’ she offered. Her tone was suddenly that of a real child, trying to share a toy it didn’t really want to give up.

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s just… you have to understand, there is something remarkable about you. What do you mean about our minds being weak?’

  ‘Oh…’ Jenny was casual. ‘It is so hard to explain. Your minds are like jelly. It is really easy to push them and make them wobble. It is fun. But we do not. We are told not to.’

  ‘Who tells you not to?’ Rhys asked. Good point.

  Jenny shrugged. ‘I cannot explain.’

  ‘But why are you here?’ I asked.

  ‘Because Rawbone is a sad place. We are trying to make the people here happier.’

  ‘How’s that working out for you, then?’ asked Rhys dourly.

  For an instant, Jenny shot him such a look. Then, like a summer cloud, it passed, and she was all radiant bafflement. ‘We do the best we can.’

  ‘But who brought you here in the first place?’ I asked. ‘I mean, Jenny, you must have some idea of that?’

  She shook her head, and her gloriously straight hair barely moved. ‘No. I am still a child. I do not believe that a child understands the meaning of life.’

  I was about to say that she had a massive whiff of bullshit about her, when she paused, sniffed and wrinkled her nose. ‘This baby, it is now wrong,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Anwen just needs changing, that’s all.’

  ‘Into what?’ Jenny looked puzzled.

  ‘She needs a new nappy,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh.’ Jenny smiled widely. ‘What is that? Is it fun? Can I try?’

  ‘By all means.’ I smiled. ‘Jenny, do you know what pebble-dashing means?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then this will be fun.’

  Rhys

  I watched Jenny holding our baby.

  We kind of skipped antenatal classes, due to being hunted by the world’s secret police, but one of the things I was dying to have a go on was a fake baby. You know the things I mean? They’re dolls, they weigh about the same, they make a lot of noise and are constantly demanding. But they’re not actually real.

  Suddenly, that’s what Jenny reminded me of. A kid that had been made in a factory. But by who, and why?

  Despite my reservations, she was bloody good with the baby, that was for certain. I realised that Jenny was great at picking up and reflecting body language. Anwen frowned, so Jenny would frown. Which would make Anwen smile. So Jenny would smile. The baby even stopped squirming and hung in her arms, as floppy as an old T-shirt

  Suddenly, Gwen and I had nothing to do. We were just stood there at the side of the kitchen-dinette.

  ‘Don’t you have somewhere to be?’

  Jenny shrugged. ‘Only school.’ She paused. ‘But today I am mitching off.’ She used slang like a BBC newsreader. I wondered if I could get her to say ‘cowing lush’.

  Gwen took a step closer and sank down, staring at Jenny’s eye level. She was in Nancy Drew mode. ‘School, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you learn stuff?’

  ‘Heaps.’ Jenny considered. ‘I think I know a lot of it already. But sometimes it is nice for us all to learn together.’

  ‘And what do you learn?’

  ‘Stuff.’ Jenny’s eyes, just for a second slid sideways and then back. Evasive. Cunning. Sly.

  ‘What kind of stuff?’ Gwen hadn’t missed a thing.

  ‘We are not supposed to say,’ Jenny admitted. She held up Anwen. ‘I believe she is hungry. Shall I feed her?’ She started to unbutton her school shirt.

  ‘No, it’s OK.’ Gwen was very quick. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  Jenny refused lunch, which was a shame, as I’d managed something approaching a proper meal, even if it was from tins. At the stroke of two o’clock, she stood up.

  ‘I will go now, if that is all right,’ she said. She handed Anwen
over to me. I held the baby up above my head and dangled her, then swept her to my shoulder, making embarrassing ‘Who’s Daddy’s favourite girl?’ noises.

  Jenny watched impassively. ‘I must go to games.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Gwen.

  ‘I have enjoyed playing with your child, however.’

  ‘Anwen,’ I put in.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Jenny. ‘Perhaps I can do so again? Anwen is small and warm.’

  ‘And smells,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Would you like me to change her again before I go?’

  ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘It’s what dads are for.’

  ‘I see.’ Jenny nodded. ‘I had wondered what part they played after the conception.’ She smiled. ‘I must go. Have a good afternoon.’ She turned around and left.

  We watched her walk out of the caravan park, her perfect hair and neatly ironed school uniform all utterly in place.

  ‘Crikey,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gwen.

  ‘So,’ I muttered, ‘we’ve got one of the Children of the Corn as a babysitter.’

  ‘All I heard,’ Gwen pushed her hair away from her face, ‘was the word “babysitter”.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed dreamily.

  We worked out what to do next. Then we drew up a list. We drew up a lot of lists in those days. Normally while the bottle steriliser was cooking up its sweet little hospital-whiffing stew of Milton fluid.

  ‘So, we find out what the Scions really are, investigate the Weather Monitoring Station, find out where these kids go to school. Anything else?’ Gwen asked. She was holding a biro quite seriously, even though she’d scribbled the list on the back of a takeaway menu.

  ‘Pop into the village shop for bog roll,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Gwen. ‘That goes straight to the top of the list.’

  Eloise

  Hey Eloise!

  Thanks so much for this. Great stuff. Really feel we’ve moved on. We are making progress, so yay!

  Small thing. Just wondering if you have any more data about this family who have moved into Rawbone you can cycle downstream? I’ve checked the databases on the shared folder, and there’s nothing in there, unless I am being stupid and missing it. I’d really appreciate it if you could keep the shared folder up to date! These systems aren’t just for my benefit, but for the entire project! So, sorry, but can you update them if you’ve got a moment to spare? Everyone here is very keen to know what’s going on with this family. Pictures too, if you’ve got a chance to take them, that would be fab. Would really appreciate the effort.