Almost Perfect Page 10

  Emma nodded. ‘I’ve moved on.’

  Kate slid her head onto one side, like she was listening for an approaching train. ‘Oh. I’m so pleased. I always think it’s tragic when we can’t move on. There’s no point in torturing yourself over your failures, pet.’ And she smiled again and walked away.

  Cancer?

  OWEN HARPER IS STILL DEAD

  Jack sat on his own in the Boardroom, just listening to the sounds of Torchwood. It was never quiet, even here, several storeys below Cardiff Bay. There was always the rumble of traffic, and the thud of the waves, the not-quite-right ticking from their unique computer system, the occasional roar of a Weevil, and the angry hum of the Rift Manipulator, the only thing keeping Cardiff from being torn out of existence. Oh, plus, sometimes, he swore he could hear the chiming of a grandfather clock, but he’d never found it, or asked Ianto where it was.

  This was his time, and he loved it. In his long lives, he’d only ever felt truly at home in Torchwood – the only place and time that suited him. All the noises comforted him – in an odd way, this creepy, dark place was his only friend. It let him think.

  He heard a distant footfall. Ianto, he thought. He didn’t say anything until he came into the room.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ said Ianto, awkwardly. He was wearing his favourite suit back from when he’d been a man. And carrying a tray of coffee. He tried out a brave smile. ‘Normal service has been resumed.’ He set down the tray with a bang and waited. His smile faded as his look at Jack became desperate.

  ‘Oh, Ianto,’ Jack got up and walked over to his friend, gripping him by the shoulders. ‘You look ridiculous in those clothes.’

  Ianto shrugged. ‘What every girl wants to hear. I just felt like a change. Hoping it would jog my memory.’ He poured milk into Jack’s cup, stirred it and handed it to him. Jack took it, brushing his hand against Ianto’s. Ianto held it, but snatched his away when Gwen came in in a waft of pastry flakes. She put down her sausage roll on the Boardroom desk, scattering more crumbs, and grabbed a coffee from the tray. Only then did she notice Ianto. She paused. ‘Hum. OK. It’s quite Marlene. I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Really?’ said Jack. ‘I think she’d be quite upset.’

  ‘Hey!’ protested Ianto, tugging unhappily at the suddenly overlong sleeves of his jacket.

  Jack pressed on.

  ‘Now, sit down. Ianto, drink some of your excellent coffee, and listen. I’ve got some news. News about what made you the man you are today.’

  He pushed a key, and documents managed to drift onto the Boardroom computer screen. As he waved his hands in the air, various ones floated forward to fill the wall.

  ‘This was an active file of Owen’s. He was monitoring various news reports about revolutionary gene therapy. Apparently this was a therapy that wasn’t available on the NHS – the makers said they’d been told by various hospitals that it was too costly. But they were claiming some success with all the usual suspects – the big C, the big A, the even bigger A, and even baldness and wrinkles. So far – so normal. There are a dozen of these stories every week in the papers. Breakthrough press releases that are never heard from again, or turn out to be flawed studies. But you know how it is – everyone wants to be perfect, to be cured. And we know that a couple of these stories have turned out to be worth Torchwood’s time. And so, they’re flagged.

  ‘This one – there was something that grabbed Owen’s attention. It was partly the deliberately low-key nature of the reports. As though the people behind it wanted the public to know about it, but didn’t want anyone to take it seriously. Then it turns out that…’ He paused. A long document floated past in very small print. ‘… This is the report from the NHS trust that was supposed to have looked into this treatment. It’s a fake – no one has even considered using this. It’s not even been through basic testing – that’s all faked too. This treatment is a fake. Which isn’t necessarily a problem – only there are all of these testimonies to its success. And they read wrong – they’re not showing up like the fluke cures you get from placebo trials. Nor do they read like faked testimonials. No “Mrs N of Stoke-on-Trent” – these are the real things. Names, addresses, photos. All over the last two months, appearing in papers across the country, but all claiming to have received treatment in Wales. Owen thought that this was a fake cure that accidentally worked. So, we flagged it. And then, on the night you disappeared, Gwen and I were out hunting Weevils, and here you were. Alone. Cleaning the coffee filter. Same old Saturday night. And then the file noticed this, and sent you an alert.’

  A small newspaper article floated to fill the screen:

  HEALTHCARE ALL AT SEA FOR MIRACLE CURE

  DOCTORS ARE DEMANDING to know if a miracle cure is legal, following the discovery that secret gene treatments are being offered on a Dublin to Cardiff ferry service.’

  ‘Oh my god!’ said Gwen. ‘The ferry!’

  The headline swum slowly across the wall.

  Gwen shook her head. ‘But… No one mentioned anything strange. They just seemed shocked. They literally didn’t know what hit them. Everything seemed OK.’

  Jack looked at her. ‘Read on…’

  Nicknamed the ‘Hope Boat’, this is an ordinary ferry service that has been offered for the last four months. Patients can join normal passengers heading to the Emerald Isle and, once the ferry is in International Waters, the apparently ‘illegal, untested’ treatment can be carried out.

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ said Barry Truman, 48, of Minehead. ‘We did some shopping in Cardiff, some sightseeing in Dublin, and on the way back my cancer was cured. My GP had given up on me, but apparently I’m in complete remission.’

  Furious NHS officials are demanding access to the Hope Boat, but the ferry company has explained that the procedure is nothing to do with them. ‘We know it goes on,’ explained a spokesman for the company, ‘but we don’t know who carries out the treatment, or even who the patients are. All we know is that there’s a lot of miracle cures going on onboard, and who are we to stop that?’

  Cancer specialist Oliver Feltrow disagrees: ‘Terminal illness care has always been prey to so-called miracle hoaxes like this. Proper palliative care can be derailed by these claims of a total cure, leading to a tragically inevitable relapse. The really sick people are those behind this scam.’

  Passengers on the ferry last weekend rallied to support the Hope Boat. ‘I had no idea,’ said Mr Ross Kielty, 35, of Neath. ‘Fancy learning that the wife and I have been on a shopping trip while everyone around us has been cured of god knows what. No wonder they’re drinking the bar dry!’

  There were several photographs accompanying the article. A picture of the ferry and a few shots of passengers. They started to drift into close-up on the screen as Jack continued his narrative.

  ‘So, the system notices this article, and flags it as being on our very doorstep. And so, as the only person in the Hub, you print out a timetable and head out. And that’s not all. Look…’

  Gwen gasped. There, at the very back of a crowd of a picture from over a week ago, was a woman who looked exactly like Ianto.

  ‘I don’t remember, I don’t remember,’ said Ianto very quietly.

  IANTO CAN RIDE A HORSE

  ACROSS A BEACH WITHOUT

  FEAR OR SHAME

  ‘You OK?’ asked Jack. Ianto was in the tourist office, diligently tidying away leaflets in the carousel. He hadn’t exactly run out of the Boardroom, but it hadn’t been a slow saunter either.

  ‘No, Jack,’ sighed Ianto. ‘I’m really, really scared, and I don’t remember a thing about that ferry. If that’s not me, who is it?’

  ‘Ianto, relax.’ Jack’s voice was soothing. ‘Come on. Let’s talk about this. See what we can sort out.’

  ‘No,’ said Ianto. ‘I can’t relax. My breasts really ache.’ He popped down a small pile of postcards of interesting Welsh political buildings and rubbed at his left breast. ‘It’s really sore.’

  ‘Would you like me t
o rub it better?’ Jack was always smooth.

  Ianto glanced sharply at him. ‘Jack, it really itches. Maybe it’s this top. I swear it’s a poly-cotton mix, but the label says no. But then what kind of fool trusts a label? “Dry clean only”! I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘You are such a princess.’

  ‘Well yes, obviously.’ Ianto was lost in thought. ‘Geranium leaves are supposed to be good. But that’s for when you’re lactating, I think.’

  ‘Are you lactating?’ Jack wore an expression of dangerous interest.

  ‘I assure you, you would be the last person to know if I was.’ Ianto moved into a corner.

  ‘Is that what’s been different about the coffee?’ Jack laughed.

  Ianto snapped the elastic band off of a new batch of leaflets about an organic jam activity centre. He pinged the band expertly at Jack’s ear. The Captain clapped his hands over the ear and gave Ianto a pout.

  ‘God, you’re moody these days – you’re not… at that time of the month, are you?’

  Ianto stared at him, horrified. ‘Oh. I hope not. Am I? How can I tell?’

  ‘Wikipedia,’ Jack tutted. ‘Wikipedia.’

  ‘It’s just… Look, can we sort this out before I have to find out?’

  Jack reached across the desk and took Ianto’s hand. He led him gently back into the Hub. ‘Come on. Ianto – that ferry. What if you were on it? Gwen’s going through the files, seeing if there’s any reference to you. Think. Has it triggered anything? Is that little pill working?’

  Ianto shrugged. ‘Not really. Well, it is, kind of. I’ve been remembering working at a supermarket while I was at university. I can remember the prices of everything. From tinned peas to cereals. Every single brand. It’s not terribly helpful, but it’s allowed me to work out the true rate of inflation.’

  ‘Can you remember anything more? Think. Ferry. Ever been on the ferry before?’

  Ianto shook his head. ‘No. The only time I took the Irish ferry was from Swansea when I was a kid. Mum drank two pints of Guinness on the way over and was sick and she clipped me over the ear when I laughed.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s charming, but not entirely helpful.’

  ‘It was cold and windy, and they only had Panda Cola and I wanted a slush puppy.’ Ianto’s face took on a wistful glaze. ‘And… ah.’ His face lit up. ‘The full range of alcopops and a quite unbelievable offer on cocktail jugs. But I’m travelling on my own, and I don’t like saying the names out loud.’ He stole a glance at Jack. ‘Some of them are quite frank, you know.’

  ‘That they are. People who order Sex On A Beach have clearly never done it.’ Jack cupped a hand to Ianto’s cheek. ‘Well done, Ianto. We’ve a recent memory. Anything more?’ Jack had steered him down to the Boardroom. He signalled Gwen over.

  Ianto’s eyes started to cloud over just slightly, and a thought happened. ‘I’m starting to remember something. Oh yes.’

  ‘What?’

  Ianto shuddered. ‘Hen night.’

  2. LUCKY DEBBIE’S DUTY-FREE

  PURSUIT OF LOVE

  IANTO IS HAVING A FLASHBACK

  It is last Friday night. Ianto is on a ferry. Ianto is alone at the bar. Ianto is a man. Which, at the time, isn’t surprising, really. But thinking about it now… Anyway, he’s there on the ferry, pulling out of Cardiff Bay, and there’s a little cabin with orange curtains and a stranger snoring in the top bunk, so he’s at the bar. He’s asked them to make him a coffee to keep him alert, and he’s not liking any of it. The beans were burnt, over-diluted, and it’s been sat in the coffee-maker since February. He thinks he may stop being so silly. He’s supposed to blend in, but here he is at the bar in a suit drinking coffee from a tiny cup and saucer and all around him is noise and formica and laughter and music from every nightmare wedding disco in his life.

  He’s keeping an eye out. Someone here. Several someones. Someone must be a patient. Someone must be ill. Does anyone look ill? Or out of place? Who are the patients? Who are the doctors? There’s a hen night over there, dressed as nurses, but they’ve also got on devil horns, angel wings and some tinsel. Perhaps it’s all a double bluff? Ah. Cunning.

  He looks over at them a bit more. They seem happy and very drunk. They’re all so young and so loud and keep yelling out for Lucky Debbie. He guesses Debbie is getting married.

  ‘Hello, sailor!’ says a voice at his elbow.

  He looks around. She’s quite drunk but very pretty. And wearing L-Plates.

  ‘Hello.’ He smiles.

  ‘I’m Debbie,’ she says. She’s trying to attract the attention of the bored bar staff by waving a handful of notes.

  ‘As in Lucky Debbie?’

  She smiles. ‘Yeah. And you?’

  ‘Ianto. Not lucky at all, really.’

  She makes a boo-hoo face at him. ‘Well, we can change all that, you know. Clearly, I’m spoken for – not that that’s gonna stop me licking whipped cream off the nipples of a Chippendale tomorrow night – but lots of my friends are… well, you know… Hen Night. Come on, join us. Hey!’ This to a barman, who appears to be twelve and entirely covered in acne. ‘Four jugs of Screaming Orgasm, One Shitting Whippet, a rack of Zambucas and a pineapple juice.’

  ‘Pineapple juice?’ asks Ianto.

  Debbie leans forward, a bit confidential. ‘There’s a reason why I’m Lucky Debbie. And a lot of it’s to do with pacing myself when I’m around those screaming whores. God, we have a laugh, but sometimes it all gets a bit much. And when you’ve picked vomit out of your hair on the bus home once, it’s kind of… a sign. You want anything?’

  ‘I can be tempted.’

  ‘Oh, then you’ll love my friend Kerry. She’s quite formidable when you first meet, but easier than a GCSE.’

  ‘Ah. I see. Um. Just a diet coke please.’

  Debbie laughs. ‘Seriously? The booze is dead cheap on here. It’s not like flying.’

  ‘I know,’ says Ianto. ‘But, I’ll let you in on a thing. I’m a secret agent for an organisation that’s beyond the Government, above the UN. And I’m on a mission. So I’m not drinking, see.’

  Lucky Debbie’s eyes wander away erratically, watching the barman pour skimmed milk over a jugful of ice. The sound system starts to play ‘You’re Beautiful’.

  ‘Awww…’ says Debbie. ‘I hate this song. But love it at the same time. You know what I mean? Like, I can’t stand hearing it, but I would love someone to sing it to me. I tried explaining this to Phil. My Phil. Lucky Phil, if you like. But he thought I was asking him to do Karaoke. Sad, really. You know what I mean?’

  Ianto nods, sipping gratefully at his drink. ‘I dunno,’ he says eventually. ‘I’ve always had time for sincere music.’

  Debbie tilts her head on one side. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Help us carry over these drinks and join in the party. With that suit they’ll think you’re a stripper.’

  ‘Why thank you,’ says Ianto.

  Ianto doesn’t know it yet, but he is being watched. He’s trying to blend in, he’s trying not to arouse suspicion, but he is. He noticed that there were two people standing in the shadows of the dock as he got aboard the boat. There was something odd about them. Two men, dressed like sailors out of a perfume commercial, just standing and watching people get on the ferry, smiling blankly.

  Oddly, it’s not them who are watching him.

  Later, Ianto is sat at a table in the ferry bar. He’s quiet, but he’s watching the room. Around him are the girls. Including Kerry, who keeps giggling and nudging his arm, which just makes Ianto feel a bit bashful. He’s sipping his drink, and he’s watching the girls. They’re having fun. Simple, really drunken fun. It’s been ages since he’s done this. He’s feeling a bit… not left out. Just… sad.

  He remembers the last time he went for an evening out. Tosh got tiddly and danced like a dervish. Owen tried not to break anything coming back from the bar with drinks. Gwen was laughing cos she’d recognised her first boyfriend from school (‘Bloody hell, he’s gon
e bald!’), and Jack – Jack had looked at everyone else in the room then suddenly, on a whim, turned to him and smiled the widest smile in the world. Then Tosh came staggering over, laughing out loud at the word ‘Kajagoogoo’. She tugged at his elbow, insisted he dance.

  But Tosh is gone now, and there’s Kerry.

  The bar staff are bringing more drinks to the table, somehow managing to keep the tray stable while the room tilts from side to side.

  Ianto isn’t feeling sick, which he finds remarkable. And Kerry keeps asking if he wants to dance. He carries on observing the room. An old couple come in and take a glass of wine each to a small table. He watches them. They’re a possibility. There’s another man sitting alone – he’s wearing a terrible jumper and drinking beer from a jug, so possibly Norwegian.

  The girls all start to sing along to the music. Ianto thinks, ‘I may be undercover, but no. There are some things I cannot do.’ So, after a wan smile, he leaves them to sing about their umbrella.

  The cold night air really, really clears his head. He takes a walk around, heading down a flight of stairs and into a long corridor. It’s quite an old ship and there’s a lot of it that’s like his childhood – full of browns and oranges and formica. There are lots of narrow passages. It’s an old Norwegian ferry, and so there are signs scattered around in English, Norwegian (he guesses) and Welsh. Apart from the bar staff, the crew are spookily absent, so there’s no one to go up to and ask, ‘Excuse me, have you seen any alien technology?’

  He passes a few doors marked ‘Staff Only’. But they’re not locked, and just lead to boring corridors without even lino. The ship is lurching alarmingly, and Ianto is finally feeling a bit sick. He can sense the sweat pricking under his clothes. He makes his way to a railing and breathes, breathes, breathes.

  He’s got a night on the boat, a day in Dublin, and then a trip back. What if it’s all like this? It’s oddly like an airport departure lounge at sea. Completely anonymous, faceless, the perfect cover. Everyone’s a stranger, everyone’s nobody.