He shook the feeling off. It was just self-indulgence and self-pity, neither of which traits Jack had any patience with. He knew only too well from experience that having people with him wouldn't ease his deep-seated loneliness. He was different and, however much his team loved him and respected him, he would never be one of them. He couldn't die. That changed the way people looked at you.
Involuntarily, he glanced through the glass and towards the stairs. The ground at the bottom had been scrubbed clean, but for him would always be crimson stained against the clinical white from where Toshiko had bled to death, gutshot and still intent on saving the rest of them. If he could have taken her death, he would have and, although both Gwen and Ianto knew this, he knew they also couldn't help but perceive him as different. Alien in his own right. In many ways he was a freak. He had the one thing that most humans envied, but to him it felt like an endless curse.
He stared at the screen and listened to the hum of silence.
Silence.
Blood beat faster through his eternal veins.
'Silence… Now there's a thing…' he muttered softly under his breath. All self-pity gone as soon as it had come, his fingers whirred over the keyboard, his sharp eyes peering up through his fringe, focused on the state-of-the-art flat-screen monitor.
What if… he wondered. What if the stories were true… With renewed vigour, his fingers punched at the keys.
Loneliness, isolation, sound, emotion, shape-shifting. He typed the words into a new search, highlighting a space in the far reach of the universe on the on-screen map. He wasn't really sure that the race or even the planet existed; he'd only heard of them through rumour and legend. But if they did… If they actually did, then maybe he had a chance of figuring out what they were dealing with.
The untouched pizza grew cold as Jack worked, his eyes never leaving the screen. It was shaping up to be a long night.
TWELVE
An hour later, as Captain Jack Harkness was letting his untouched pizza grow cold, forgotten on the far corner of his desk, Ben Pritchard and Drew Powell were having a quiet drink in the King's Arms. The old pub, tucked down one of the narrower side streets in an ancient part of the city, was unusually quiet. With so many people in Cardiff for the competition, either as participants or spectators, it should have been busier even though it was raining outside. There were just a few groups of subdued drinkers spread through the rambling building's nook-and-cranny rooms, the sorts of private spaces that wreckers and thieves would have gathered in a couple of hundred years back in the harbour town.
Ben's nose crumpled a little as they lifted their large glasses of Pinot Grigio from the long wooden bar. The King's Arms was the kind of pub that not so long ago would have been filled with a low-hanging cloud of dirty grey smoke that customers would have to wade through to reach a seat and, although the cigarettes were gone and there had obviously been a fresh lick of paint applied at some point in the last year or two, Ben thought that if he breathed in hard enough the ghosts of all those dead Marlboro Lights and Benson amp; Hedges would dive gleefully into his lung cavity and fester there in the hope of birthing some kind of tumour. Or at least ruining his voice for a week or two. And there would be plenty in the competition who would be thankful for that.
The Pritchard and Powell duet had come a very close second in the previous year's final, and since then it seemed to Ben that all their spare time had been devoted to practice, practice, practice, especially as this year the final was going to be televised and who knew what that could lead to. Drew in particular was desperate to win. And if Drew was happy then Ben was happy. Which pretty much summed up the full thirteen years of their relationship.
'Come on.' Drew stepped away from the bar. 'Let's go through there and grab a seat.' He nodded towards an alcove with a few steps leading down from it. 'And let's hope they've got cushions.'
Following his partner's rotund form as he bustled through the empty space of the main bar as if there were a crowd pressing into him on all sides, Ben couldn't help but smile. They were chalk and cheese. Whereas Ben could easily pass as straight by all stereotypical standards, Drew was an outright diva. What was the point in simply walking when you could flounce? Why cry when you could wail? Still, Drew had the kindest heart he'd ever known, and as far as Ben was concerned enough talent to be as demanding as he liked. Drew might be hard work, but Ben loved him. And he loved Ben and all his staid sensibilities. It was as simple as that.
Down in the snug bar, Drew paused. 'Oh God.'
'What's the matter?' With Drew's wide rear blocking the narrow stairwell, Ben couldn't see round the corner.
Drew nudged him in the ribs. 'Look.' He stepped aside a little, pressing into the wall so Ben could get past. His heart sank. Angus Parker, Tony Lockley and the small crew of cronies they took everywhere with them were gathered round the largest table in the small lounge area. Judging by the number of empty glasses stacked up in the middle, they'd been there for quite some time.
'Do you want to go somewhere else?' Ben whispered, his feet already backing up the stairs. They'd only wanted one quiet relaxing drink before going back to the hotel for the night. It didn't look like it would turn out that way.
'Too late,' Drew hissed. And he was right. Angus Parker had spotted them, a leering grin spreading across his thin, handsome face.
'Evening, ladies.'
The table gave him a round of snorts and titters as applause for his wit. Ben sighed. He'd have thought that some people would get bored of their own homophobia. In the case of Angus Parker and his constant digs, however, it never let up, and in his quieter moments Ben was inclined to believe the young man with the delicate bone structure protested too much.
'Evening.'
Ben kept it neutral and flashed a small smile before moving to a table in the far corner. It was away from the others but, as far as he was concerned, nowhere near distant enough. Drew had stayed where he was, centre stage in the middle of the small room. He lifted his free hand and rested it on a tilted hip, one eyebrow raising as his full lips pursed. He looked with distaste at the pile of glasses on the table.
'Not expecting to do very well this year, boys?'
Tony Lockley's eyes narrowed and, watching from the corner, Ben inwardly groaned. Their quiet drink was going to be totally ruined and it was going to be Drew's fault. Why couldn't he just let things alone? Why did he always have to take the bait?
'What do you mean?'
Drew tutted. 'All that alcohol isn't good for the vocal cords, you know that.' He sighed. 'You wouldn't catch us girls drinking ourselves stupid with so few days to go before the finals.' He turned on his heel, strolling over to join Ben at last. 'But then I suppose,' he sent the parting shot without looking back, 'if you've got no chance of winning then it doesn't really matter. Cheers!'
Ben glared at Drew as he sat down, his ample rear spilling over the sides of the bar stool.
'What?'
'You know what.' Ben kept his voice low. 'Why do you have to antagonise them like that? Couldn't you have ignored them just for once?'
Drew shrugged, his eyes wide and innocent. 'Backing down's not in my nature, that's all.'
'Well, sometimes I wish you'd just take into account what's in my nature. I just wanted a quiet drink and now you've ruined that.' Ben could feel the hot, angry glares they were drawing from the other singers and knew that the argument wasn't over yet.
Drew's brow furrowed, never happy to be told off. 'They started it.'
'But you didn't have to join in.' Ben's dark eyes glowing with irritation at the parent-child nature of their conversation, he wondered why he was bothering. It was a pointless argument. Drew was incapable of walking away from the likes of Lockley and Parker. Especially those two. They'd been niggling at each other for the past three years of the competition. If only Drew could see that the fact that every year they beat the other two was enough to put them in their place. He didn't need to get into slanging matches with them. But on
ce again it was too late.
Drew took a sip of his wine and leaned forward, his back bristling slightly. 'Are they looking at us?' he asked. 'I can feel them staring.'
'Of course they're looking at us. What did you expect? Now please, just ignore them.' Ben took a long sip of the perfectly chilled Pinot Grigio, but couldn't take any enjoyment from it. He just wanted to finish his drink and get them both out of there before it got nasty. It wouldn't turn into a physical fight, that didn't worry him, but after thirteen years with Drew he knew that the man could stay up all night festering over a well-delivered barbed comment that wasn't his own, and Drew wasn't one to fester quietly.
'Us younger men can handle it,' Lockley called over. 'I suppose at your age you've got to take more care.' He paused. 'Especially carrying all that weight.'
Ben watched Drew prickle, his jaw clenching and fingers tightening on his wine glass until parts of his pink skin turned white on his knuckles. If there was a way to goad Drew, it was to mention his weight. He'd piled on the pounds over the past three years since turning thirty, there was no denying that. He always claimed it was a thyroid problem, but Ben knew it was just a mixture of contentment, a fondness for cream cakes and an aversion to the gym. Ben didn't mind, and he figured that if it really bothered Drew that much he'd do something about it.
'Yeah,' Angus Parker joined in. 'Good job the only way Ben has to carry you is in your singing. He'd never manage you over a threshold.'
This brought hoots of mirth from the other singing pair's small audience, which consisted of a man in his forties who was none too slim himself, a scrawny blonde who obviously had a crush on the handsome Angus, a brunette who Ben thought didn't look old enough to be in a pub in the first place — and her acne, however well she thought she'd hidden it beneath a thick layer of too dark make-up, was not persuading him otherwise — and an older man Ben recognised as Angus Parker's uncle, who worked as a kind of roadie for them. It made Ben smile. Angus and Tony wanted to be treated like pop stars but sang classical music. He'd never known two men less comfortable in themselves, but they wouldn't want to hear that from a 35-year-old, happily homosexual man.
The final jibe mocking his weight and his voice was too much for Drew to bear. He turned slowly on the stool until he was facing his antagonist.
'And where are you planning on coming this year? In the top five?' He snorted derisively. 'Let me just remind you that Pritchard and Powell came second last year and, if you must know, several bookies have us odds-on favourites to win the final. Some of us are actually in the competition. We're not just playing at it.' He paused dramatically. 'Who knows, after this we may even go professional. Whereas I doubt you two can even spell professional.'
Across the room, the laughing stopped and Ben could see the anger flaring up in the flush of both young men's faces. Drew could sound damned patronising at times, and this was one of those times.
'We're working-class men and proud of it,' Angus Parker's uncle growled from over the lip of his pint glass. Ben had never stood close enough to the man to find out, but he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd had 'love' and 'hate' in homemade tattoos on his knuckles. He looked like a man who'd had an interesting life.
'I'm sorry,' Ben cut in. 'He doesn't mean anything by it.'
Drew turned, his neck long and chin tilted upwards, and scowled. His displeasure was obvious.
'I'd rather be a proper bloke and working class than some middle-class poofter,' Angus sneered.
Without speaking to Ben, Drew returned his attention to the small crowd in the other room. A smirk twisted on his full mouth. 'A middle-class poofter that can sing you off the stage.' The smile turned into a grin. 'And I think, sweetheart,' he purred, 'it takes more than being common to make someone a proper bloke.' He winked. 'And from what I've heard, you've not got much in that department.'
Draining almost half his glass in one mouthful, Ben's mood darkened, as if a gauze veil had slipped down between him and the rest of the people in the pub. Tension tightened in his throat and his jaw clenched. What he needed was to relax. His singing would be awful otherwise. And as much as this argument might be over for Drew by morning, his own resentment would linger. He couldn't just let these things go like Drew did. Drew would be screaming at you one minute and crying with laughter the next, his dark moods coming and going as swiftly as a brief summer's downpour. Ben was different. Things stayed with him. And if he couldn't shake them, then his lungs and diaphragm seized up and lost power. And if that happened this year then Drew really would have something to be upset about. Even after all their years together, Drew didn't really get how Ben was different to him. Drew thought that, underneath everything, all people were just like he was, with the exception perhaps of Angus Parker and Tony Lockley.
Lockley nudged Parker. 'Did you see on the news about those singers that got murdered?' His voice was loud. 'Maybe we should try and point whoever did it in Fat Boy's direction.' His laugh was like a pig's snort: animal and unpleasant. 'Get him out of all our hair.'
'I bet the whole bloody competition would chip in to pay for that.' Blonde girl's words slurred slightly. 'I've only had to listen to him for five minutes and he's doing my head in.'
Both Parker and Lockley laughed aloud at that, and Ben wearily wondered which one of the two she would have the pleasure of shagging that night, and whether she'd even remember it in the morning. Suddenly, the whole place turned sour and seedy in his mind's eye. He finished the rest of his wine.
'Are you going to let them speak to me like that?' Drew stared at him, his chin wobbling slightly.
'They're drunk. Forget it.' Ben stood up. 'I'm going.'
'What do you mean you're going? I haven't finished my drink yet.'
'Well, I have.' He paused, keeping his simmering anger locked in the tightened muscles of his jaw. 'I don't need this, Drew. You knock yourself out with these wastes of space, and I hope it makes you feel better. Me? I'm going to get some fresh air.'
Without waiting for a reply, Ben strode over to the alcove and up the stairs to the main bar, ignoring the catcalls of 'Get her!' that followed him. He wasn't angry with Parker and Lockley. They were what they were. He was angry with Drew for always needing to win.
He didn't have to turn round to know that Drew was coming after him, but it was only when he'd left the pub and was striding along the narrow cobbled street in no particular direction other than away that Drew finally called after him.
He turned and stared at the chubby man standing helplessly in the pub doorway.
'What?'
The few metres between them seemed too vast for either to cross, and Drew must have sensed it because he hesitated where he was rather than coming forwards.
'I'm sorry!' he called. 'I really am. I'm an idiot.' His hands fluttered as he spoke. 'I'm sorry.' He repeated the words more softly, as if for the first time he realised just how annoyed Ben was.
'You always are. But it doesn't stop you doing it again.'
'Let's go somewhere else and have a drink. I'll be perfect. I promise.'
Ben looked at the ground rather than at Drew. If he looked into his partner's hangdog expression then he'd only feel guilty about being angry, and that would make him more angry. He sighed. He just needed half an hour on his own.
'Go back to the hotel,' he said finally. 'I'll see you back there in an hour or so.' Turning his back, he strode away.
'Ben!'
Not looking round, Ben raised one arm in a half-hearted wave goodbye and then thrust his hands deep into his pockets, hunching over a little to keep warm. At least the rain had eased to a drizzle, the water a fine mist, teasing his skin. He sped up a little, enjoying the air filling his lungs, the exercise helping shake away the tension that squeezed at his insides.
Eventually the narrow road opened out into a more modern boulevard, large 1930s semi-detached houses uniformly lining one side, and a vast park filling the other. From the glow of the street lamps on the residents' side, he could jus
t make out a children's play area close to the pavement. Smiling, he followed the green iron-railing fence until he reached the small entrance and stepped inside. For a moment, he cautiously peered across the softly sprung area. A see-saw was a mere grey shadow in the gloom, and the swings tilted backwards and forwards slightly on the breeze, the chains creaking like old joints. The roundabout was silently still. There was no one there; no drunks or junkies or kids waiting for some hapless passer-by to pick on or kick in.
He was alone.
The ground mute beneath him, he padded to the swings and sat in the middle of the three, leaving the other two empty to be filled by whatever ghosts of children danced in them in the night. The chains pressed into his hips, but he didn't mind. His knees bending slightly, he pushed himself back and then lifted his legs to let the seat do what it was designed to do.
Drifting backwards and forwards, he stared out into the inky blackness of the park. The gentle motion helped ease the tightness in his shoulders. Shutting his eyes, he let the damp air slide slowly in and out of his lungs, each time the breath lasting for longer than the previous. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. In the invisible darkness a bush rustled.
When his lungs were relaxed, Ben began to sing.
THIRTEEN
Gwen lay in the crumpled mess of her bed, her legs tangled in the warm sheets that Rhys had just vacated, and grinned sleepily. Her thighs tightened as if it were still her husband they were wrapped around. She really was a lucky girl. She couldn't believe it had taken her so long before she'd realised it.
Beside her a cup of coffee was cooling, and from the bathroom she could hear Rhys humming badly as he brushed his teeth. She stifled a giggle. She couldn't even figure out the tune amidst the sound of the tap running and the scrubbing of his toothbrush that were not helping Rhys's general tendency towards being completely tone deaf. There was no need to worry about some alien coming and ripping him open for his vocal cords.
Into the Silence t-10 Page 7
