Torchwood_First Born

by James Goss

  ‘What you doing down here, tiger? Anything special?’ she asked, applying lip gloss over and over until I could see the sun in her smile.

  ‘Oh, um, ah,’ I managed. This wasn’t going to be a great conversation. For some reason she had me on edge. I was mightily glad that Gwen wasn’t around to watch me falling over my tongue. ‘You know,’ I continued, casually pushing down on the pram until the front wheels popped up. ‘Shopping and stuff.’

  ‘And stuff, eh?’ She inclined her head slightly, and then carried on chewing while she worked through that thought. ‘Fancy.’ Another pause. ‘I’m Nerys.’

  Pretty much no one is called Nerys, and absolutely not a girl in her early twenties who is mostly long legs and hair extensions. But she made it a bit sexy. She stuck out a hand and I shook it.

  ‘Hello, Nerys, I’m Rhys.’

  ‘I know.’ She smirked, letting go of my hand slowly. ‘Rhys spelt D-I-L-F. Rhys with the kid. Everyone knows about you. All us girls talk about you.’ There was something like a wink.

  OK, truth to tell, I may just have been flirting back with her, a really tiny little bit. It was a dull day, it was drizzling slightly and there I was being chatted up. I’m a man, all right, and I have manly urges. Although if you asked Gwen, she’d tell you my manly urges are farting in public and leaving the seat up. Shows how much she knows. ‘And what are you up to, this fine day?’ I asked. I did not add ‘my pretty’. For Rhys Williams did not fall off the last train.

  Nerys was heavy-lidded casual. ‘I’m just waiting for a bus. It’s my second favourite thing to do in a bus shelter.’ Her eyebrows flared, then she looked down. It was a careful copy of Princess Diana doing demure. Mercifully, the lights of the approaching bus glowed round the corner, and it pulled up, the doors opening with a heartfelt sigh. Nerys leaned forward and breathed into my ear, ‘Well, there’s my ride,’ then hopped on.

  The bus chugged defiantly away up the hillside and I leaned back against the pram, exhaling for the longest time. ‘Well, Anwen, love…’ I was pleased. ‘Daddy’s still got it. Just saying.’

  Of course, then it all stopped being fun and games.

  Gwen

  The bad day happened when I was out shopping. I went past the park, pushing the pram and listening to the glorious lack of noise from my lovely daughter. Other people’s children were playing in the park, and I thought how nice it all looked – odd, but nice. All those lovely, black-haired kids running around. They were just so neat and quiet. Not like you’d expect 15-year-olds to be. No hoodies covered in fag ash and cider stains, no swearing, no music on their mobiles – just well-behaved, ordered play. Strangely blissful, if a little unusual. I couldn’t wait till Anwen grew up to be like that. Patiently waiting her turn on the swings.

  I spotted the policeman approaching and fought down the urge to panic. Odd that. I remembered when I was a copper and I’d walk up to a group – maybe just a gang hanging around when they should have been in school. Nothing spectacular. Just a nice, smiley young WPC all non-threatening body language and one of them would bolt, running like a scared hare. I’d think to myself (as I tried running after them in a body warmer) just what a stupid thing that was to do – guilt written all over their face. Dead giveaway. Never scarper. Always stand your ground.

  Now I was on the other side of the tracks and the urge to flee was almost overwhelming. Of course, you can’t really run with a pram. I mean, I’m sure they do it in LA as exercise, but what do I know?

  Instead I planted my feet firmly where they were, smile on, eyes wide, baby toy ready. The innocent, innocent Earth Mother. I looked at him – typical friendly middle-aged Welsh bloke. Slightly gone-to-seed. Puffy skin, tired hair, massive bags under his eyes, but a confident strut to his stride. Oh yes, he was very pleased with himself. He raised an arm and waved. All hail-fare-and-well-met, god love him.

  He approached. ‘Mrs Williams?’ he said, and may as well have bowed.

  ‘Yes?’ I said. Just at the moment I was going about under Rhys’s name. We’d figured the whole hiding-in-plain-sight thing would be easier that way. After all, you couldn’t have an alarm go off every time a couple called Williams moved into a Welsh village, could you now?

  He stood there, rocking back on his feet and peering down into the pram. His face lit up like he’d seen an eclipse and for a moment he seemed utterly distracted.

  ‘Can I help you, officer?’ I asked and immediately fought the urge to bite my lip. No one says that, not unless you want to get on the list of the world’s shiftiest people.

  ‘Constable Brown,’ he said, and looked very pleased about the fact. ‘Call me Tony. Everyone does. What a beautiful child. Aw, we don’t get many babies around here.’ He smiled, making a little sausage-fingered baby wave down into the pram. Anwen ignored it, and I liked her all the more for it.

  ‘Remarkable!’ He straightened up. ‘I was wondering if we could have the tiniest of chats?’ His cordiality increased, one arm gesturing to a scabby park bench like it was a royal throne.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, feeling a bit sick. This could all be perfectly fine, after all. Just a routine enquiry. Actually, let’s just pray he doesn’t say that…

  ‘Just a routine enquiry,’ he said. Oh god. I perched uneasily on the mouldy, damp bench and he sat down next to me. A bit close, mind.

  He pasted his hands across his knees, and then turned to me. Warm, friendly, patronising. ‘What it is, see, well, it’s a bit delicate…’

  Oh, spit it out, love.

  ‘We’ve had a report of an assault.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Against Davydd Hope, you see,’ he said.

  ‘Ohhh…’ I groaned.

  ‘I see you know the man.’ His whole face lit up like a smug fat light bulb. ‘Good stuff, good stuff. And would you be able, perhaps, to talk about the incident I might be referring to?’

  ‘When he suddenly kissed me?’ I asked.

  He sucked air through his teeth. ‘I’m not interested in your private life, Mrs Williams. But I do want to know about your husband’s reaction…’ He attempted a delicate cough. It was all a bit pantomime, if you ask me. But underneath it all, sharp white teeth. He edged a little nearer, hitched up his lips, flashed a bit more gum.

  I decided to play it dead straight. ‘Oh, what when Rhys lamped him one? Too bloody right! What would you have done, Tony?’

  Constable Brown managed an actual not-for-me-to-say harrumph.

  ‘Oh, come on.’ I warmed up. ‘He was livid! And the boy deserved a smack! He just launched himself on me as Rhys walked in. What would you do if you found your wife snogging another man…?’

  He looked like he was considering my words, carefully and interestedly. ‘Indeed, indeed. Tricky. It is a delicate situation. Poor Davydd is a nice enough lad, but a bit troubled… But I was very keen to seek you out. To get your side of the story. To meet the woman who could drive him to such extremes of passion, you might say. You’re quite the Helen of our fair Parish, Mrs Williams, really you are. Quite the floater of boats! What a treat for the eyes!’ He laughed his jolly little laugh and squinted at me. I tried to read what was going on behind his eyes, but not well enough. ‘Poor Davydd is somewhat shamefaced about his actions, obviously, and I’m sure we all think it would be a shame if this went any further. A dreadful shame.’ He smiled a big smile. All friends together.

  ‘So he’s not pressing charges?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t say that, now,’ huffed Constable Brown, all outraged dignity. ‘I just said…’ He slowed down, and looked at me, then glanced across at Anwen. ‘Is she yours?’ he asked, suddenly.

  I was a bit startled. ‘Yes! Of course she is!’

  ‘The local celebrity, she is.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Williams. Gwen. Stupid thing to say. But it’s nice to know. And a pleasure to meet her mother. A real treat.’ His voice dropped, and his complacent smile suddenly became something else. Something odd. It was a look I couldn’t quite… couldn’
t quite pin down.

  ‘As I said,’ he continued haltingly, a little flushed, ‘you are a wonderful mother. And these misunderstandings can get so unpleasant. So very difficult. I’m sure we’re all keen to avoid that. In whatever way we can…’ His hand, grasping the bench, flexed and unflexed, and then landed on my leg, gripping it firmly, pinching the flesh.

  I gasped and made to move, but he slid in quick and close, his face red and leering. All trace of the genial village bobby was gone, and this was a snarling, wild beast. I started to cry out, but all I could hear as he pressed down on me was his voice whispering, ‘Beautiful mother! As soon as I saw you I thought, oh yes, I’ll have some of that…’

  Oh my god. Not in a dark alleyway on my way home after a club. But here. In broad daylight in a kids’ playground.

  I reached up to fight him off, but he was gripping both my arms tightly. I called out, but first his fat salty fingers, then his dreadful mouth pushed down on mine. My eyes twisted around to try and see anyone, but the pram, the bloody pram was blocking me from view.

  I tried headbutting him, but he jerked to one side, biting down on my lip, still laughing. No sodding strength. Bloody beached-whale Gwen. Unable to fight back. I looked up, pleading at the leering face above me. Please god, I thought. Please let this not be happening… somehow make it stop…

  And then he tumbled to the floor with a groan. Standing over him were the three kids from the park, their black hair shining in the feeble sun.

  ‘Was this man annoying you?’ one of them asked, a pretty, horse-faced boy of about 15. I looked again. They were all pretty, horse-faced boys of about 15. Like brothers.

  Two of them reached out, helping me up. ‘I am Peter,’ said the other one, taking a firm grasp on the pram. ‘Come along,’ he said, ‘You must be disturbed. We will take you to mother.’

  Rhys

  It took me about twenty minutes to get there.

  A kid came to get me, knocking at the silly little door until I opened it, bleary-eyed.

  ‘Good afternoon. It is about your wife,’ he said, his face serious. ‘She is well, but you should come.’

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  He started to tell me.

  I got very angry.

  He kept on repeating that Gwen was fine, but I’m not sure I heard it. I was dizzy, sick and red angry. I ran from the caravan park, out through the lane, down into the village. My head flying with furious thoughts and threats and rash promises. When I got to the right house, a kid opened the door. Didn’t notice him, sorry.

  After the event, I’d say he was another of the square children from the village – you know, dark hair, slightly old-fashioned clothes, plain look. Typical. Straightforward. But I barged past him, thundering along the hallway with its tired carpet and vinyl runner, and through the smoked-glass door into the kitchen, one of those old kitchens, you know the kind – welsh dresser, oil cloth, chipped mugs and lino. As soon as I entered, Mrs Harries appeared, handing me a cup of tea, but I didn’t even notice. I was here for Gwen.

  She was sat in a chair by the electric fire – all three bars were turned on, so she was obviously royalty. Anwen was pressed to her, and Gwen smiled at me, the same tired smile she threw on after she’d given birth. She looked almost as dazed. She’d been crying – I could tell.

  I hugged her, spilt a bit of tea, and hugged her again.

  She shushed me. ‘It’s OK, Rhys, nothing really happened. It’s all OK. Peter stopped it.’

  ‘Peter?’

  The boy who’d fetched me stepped forward and nodded. ‘Your wife did not seem happy.’

  ‘Too bloody right, she didn’t,’ I growled. ‘Thank you.’

  She talked a bit more about what had gone on. Mrs Harries made more tea and listened.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘I mean, I just don’t get it.’ I stood up. ‘I’m going to find that man, and I’m going to knock his block off. Then I’m going to ask him why he did that to you.’

  ‘Rhys…’ began Gwen.

  The boy Peter looked at me. ‘Because of us,’ he said simply.

  Mrs Harries pushed back the curls of her grey hair and leaned forward, tapping me on the wrist gently. ‘Have a seat, dear,’ she said, her voice patient and warm.

  She was one of those women who looked perfectly fifty. In a way that you could never imagine her being younger, with long blonde hair and wearing a dress without any flowers on it. No, age suited her. Everything about her said freshly baked cakes and Tupperware and lots of tea. She sat down comfortably on a pine kitchen chair opposite me, and topped up my mug, and as she did so, the light in her eyes went. Suddenly, she looked ever so sad.

  ‘It’s to do with the children,’ she said.

  Megan Harries

  It was in 1987 that it all went wrong. We never knew why, really. But it was about then. Something in the water – perhaps due to mining, maybe Chernobyl, someone said. But the births stopped.

  The government sent out some people – they had a good look round. You know the kind – flash-looking, suits, dark glasses, but none of them ever said who they were. They weren’t the first, they weren’t the last. People came to Rawbone and they made encouraging noises and they went away.

  But they never got to the bottom of it. There was something wrong with the people of Rawbone. None of us could see a child through to term. Every now and then, one of us girls would get pregnant, and the rest of us would all pretend happiness while seething with jealousy and then a secret, awful sad triumph when it all came to nothing.

  The government sent us special doctors, and we were well looked after, I’ll say that for them. A few of the men of the village went away, tried to have kids elsewhere, but they couldn’t. A few women moved away too, but nothing came of that either. Everyone drifted back. We were all stuck here, glued together by our shameful secret. We didn’t tell anyone. We just… couldn’t bear the world looking at us.

  It wasn’t like Thalidomide or anything like that – no one could see what was causing it. There were grumblings that it was the government, but all the people who came out here were ever so nice. So straightforward and honest and sad for us.

  Some of the men here said it was the old airbase and marched on it – well, it was the 1980s. They went there, they broke down the fence, they marched around… but there was really very little there. Just a few old planes, a lighthouse and a lot of birds’ mess. No nuclear warheads or anything.

  It was just a mystery. No one knew what was behind it. No one seemed to care. Then one day, we were called to a meeting in the town hall. The whole village. A man in an army greatcoat said that there was something they could do for us after all… He said, what with the mark hanging over the village, they couldn’t let us adopt in case we passed it on to others, but they could… well, they were willing to give us what they called the Next Best Thing. Something new.

  And that’s when these children started turning up. It’s like they came in the night along with the milk. You just had to let them know that you wanted a child and you’d find one, sat cross-legged on the doorstep in the morning. Patient and kind.

  They’re called Scions. We were told they weren’t quite like normal children. Not in a good way or a bad way – just in their way. They don’t grow up. They’re just the same as when they turned up. Mine all look about 15, more or less, although I’ve had them a good few years apart. First Paul. Then Peter. Jenny’s not actually mine, but she hangs around here a lot. Her mother runs the shop – Mrs Meredith, nice lady but she and Jenny don’t really see eye to eye. Jenny’s one of the oldest Scions. Proof that they don’t really change. They’re so neat, and so kind and polite. Always. They never argue, or make any fuss, or cause trouble. They’re just there.

  The next best thing.

  Rhys

  ‘But what do you mean?’ I asked.

  Mrs Harries rested her hand on her teacup. ‘They’re well meaning. They’re just a bit too perfect. Sorry, my dears,’ she said.
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br />   The three children stood over her. Patient, kind. Placid. And suddenly just a bit unnerving. ‘That’s all right, mother,’ said Peter.

  ‘What are you?’ gasped Gwen.

  ‘We are Scions. That’s all we know,’ said Peter.

  ‘We are here to be children,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Is there anything else we can help you with?’ asked the other.

  ‘Are you… are you aliens?’ I asked.

  Jenny shrugged. ‘We do not know. We only know that we are Scions. That we love our parents and must obey them.’

  Whoa. Majorly creepy. Didn’t help that she was considering me with her strangely empty porcelain doll stare. There was the tiny hint of something in her gaze – she was in on a joke that I wouldn’t get.

  Mrs Harries made to lay a hand on Gwen, but stopped as Gwen flinched. ‘Sorry, my dear. It’s your coming here… You see, there’s never been a proper child here since that time. Sasha, Davydd and Nerys were the last births in the village. And, after that, well, we just stopped having outsiders around. The caravan park shut down. And those of us with family outside… somehow they knew we were tainted – they didn’t bring their children with them to stay, or invite us to visit. We were cursed. We can take a hint. We don’t exactly seek out others. Only a couple of buses stop here. We’re not on the way to anywhere. So we’ve been… isolated. But to see you, all of a sudden, the two of you, with a baby… it’s had an odd effect on us all. Shaken us up a bit… I had hoped it would be a good thing. It’s certainly reminded me of what we’ve lost. I know that people here are seeing in you and Rhys… well, hoping that maybe one of you can solve their situation. Can give them a child of their own.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ said Gwen.

  I remembered Nerys at the bus shelter, and groaned.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Harries rested her hand on Gwen’s, and this time she didn’t flinch.

  We didn’t talk on the walk back home. It was raining heavily, and Gwen was wrapped up like a squaw, as though she didn’t want the world to see her.