Almost Perfect (17 page)

‘Because I don’t know how your wife sounded,’ said Ianto.

RHYS IS IN SO MUCH TROUBLE

It had been a long time since Rhys had felt like this. First-date nerves. He’d spent a long time in the shower. Ironed a shirt. Worried in case people still wore ties (‘No, no one still wears ties’), even rifled the dusty bathroom cabinet and found some breath-fresh spray. It’d been fun dancing round the flat to some good old Oasis while getting dressed – like going out on the lash a decade ago. All aggro and after-sport deodorant.

He stopped to look at himself in the hall mirror, and had to admit, ‘Looking good, mate.’ He walked over to Emma’s with a spring in his step. And, oddly, he didn’t think of Gwen at any point. Not when showering, not when trying to find matching socks (a job that normally required two cries for help). Not when walking over, not when stopping to buy a little bunch of flowers (tacky, but spur of the moment, and they were lovely blooms that smelt of freshness and excitement).

He looked round at Emma’s street and thought how she had such a nice little house on a street that was… definitely up and coming. He noticed how many places there were along the way to have a good fry-up, and he thought, ‘Well, that’s nice,’ and found himself looking forward to the morning.

He’d had a great day. He’d loved the way that people had quietly noticed how good he was looking at the moment. It made him feel great. It made him feel wonderful. He’d spent the whole day looking forward to this moment – to seeing Emma again, and making her happy. He hoped he could make her happy.

He buzzed and, after a few seconds, the door to her flat sprung open, and they smiled at each other. She looked even better than he remembered. There was something about her that said ‘home’. Something that said comfort and welcome and the best bits of childhood. But also something about her that said wildness and fun and watching the sun come up.

‘Ah, Rhys!’ she said.

He kissed her. Just slightly on the lips. And he loved how she smelled.

‘It’s good to see you,’ she said, and he glowed. ‘You’re just in time. Come in for a moment. We’ll have a glass of wine before we go out, shall we?’

And he noticed that she was carrying some kitchen roll and cleaning up, and he relaxed even more. She was human – she cleaned. She was perfection.

He noticed a slight burning smell too, and sniffed the air. She giggled. ‘Oh that must be the bread-maker. I’ve always got a loaf on, you know.’

And Rhys smiled even more. She took away the flowers, with much praise, and placed them in a vase on the coffee table. And Rhys didn’t even notice that she was tidying away two empty coffee cups. He just thought how right his flowers looked on her coffee table.

He settled back onto the sofa, and he was pleased that she sat down next to him, draping an arm around him. ‘Tonight’s going to be lovely, isn’t it?’ she said, kissing him gently on the cheek.

‘Oh, I hope so,’ he said honestly. ‘I’d hate to disappoint you. I can honestly say that you’re one of the most wonderful women I’ve ever met. And this is gorgeous wine.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, clinking their glasses with a laugh. ‘And it goes perfectly with your lovely eyes.’

‘Oh, my eyes, is it?’ said Rhys. ‘Is that all you like about me?’ Rhys put down his glass on the coffee table, pleased that she hadn’t even asked him to use a coaster. And he just looked at her. And then they kissed again, properly.

JACK IS SOFTLY, SOFTLY
CATCHEE MONKEY

People came and went across The Hayes. It was the centre of old Cardiff, in some ways. Known as the Hayes Island, a little cobbled area surrounded by department stores and endless building works. In the middle of the Island was a snack bar, pumping out hot, sweet tea and bacon rolls and hot cross buns and cakes to people who were happy to sit in the wintry open air, shivering and blowing on their drinks and passing the time.

It was quiet today. A few lonely old couples sat comparing bargains found and lost. A comical Frenchman from Poland stood, trying to sell onions from the back of an old black bicycle. A tired-looking kid was handing out flyers about God.

Jack sipped his drink and watched the figures two tables away. There was Ianto, and there was Ross Kielty. They looked quiet. There’d been an initial blow-up and he’d thought about crossing over and interceding, but Ianto just averted it, laying a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. And he’d fallen forward, crying. And Ianto had hugged him. And then they’d spoken for a bit. And now they were running out of things to say. And the man was crying again. Jack realised his drink had gone cold. He went over to the counter and asked for three more. And a Bakewell slice. He took them over to the table and sat down.

Ross sniffed miserably and looked up. ‘Who’s this?’

Ianto smiled. ‘This is my boss, Jack.’

‘Your boss?’

Jack shook his hand, Ross returning it without much enthusiasm. ‘Ianto is my Man Friday. Even at the moment. He keeps me honest and good.’

Ianto sipped his tea. Hot and milky and sweet. He noticed he was leaving a lipstick mark on the cardboard cup and thought, ‘I’m never going to get used to this, am I?’

Jack continued. ‘He was on that ferry because of me. I’m responsible for what’s happened to him. But I could, so easily, make you responsible. For all of it – for the deaths, the destruction, for what’s going on in Cardiff, even now. But really, that’s just routine. What I really want is to know what happened to Ianto, and how I get him back.’

Ianto smiled, and reached over, snapping off a chunk of Bakewell.

Jack gave him a glance. ‘You’ll put on weight.’

Ross laughed. ‘Christine used to think so, too. But no – the body’s perfect. It doesn’t really gain that much weight. It just stays fairly lean and trim and fresh. It doesn’t really age. I should know – since she’s been gone, I’ve been lost. I’ve been pushing this body to the limits – and every day it snaps back to how it was.’

‘Dorian Gray,’ mused Jack.

‘If you like – but there’s no painting in the attic.’

‘Oh there is,’ said Jack grimly. ‘There’s always a picture in the attic. There’s always a bill to be paid. What did you do? What happened?’

‘Well,’ said Ross. ‘We were designers and decorators. You know how it is. We made a lot of money. We made each other very happy. And we had these clients – and they were like friends. And they were the most beautiful couple. I mean, gay, so obviously, looked after themselves, and what have you, but they were really, really wonderful. Great to work for, and somehow you knew just what it was they wanted. It was the easiest job we’d ever worked on. And we could just wander in and out of the flat and they didn’t mind. They were very free and easy and we felt… we were their best friends. Although they had a lot of best friends. Some would be around for a few weeks, some for just one night. But we were there for a while – we had work to do. We had decorating to do. And we felt fulfilled, worthwhile. We were making somewhere suitable for them.

‘And one day, they were out, or in bed or something. And there was this tiny ornament. Christine found it first. She just noticed it on a shelf. She said it was calling out to her. She said it was all forgotten and lonely and it wanted to be taken away. And she said we should do that. And we did.

‘And it told us what to do. Honestly. As soon as we both touched it, it was there in our heads. Christine said it sounded like her dad. For me, it sounded just like Richard bloody Burton. But somehow, that object talked to us. Soothing and strong and lovely.

‘And we left the flat, and we never looked back. It made us beautiful. Oh, we were great before – but it made everything we ever worried about go away. And after it had done that, it asked us if there was anything more we wanted. World Peace, Chris said. It laughed, but I said it would be nice to do something good. And the little stone said that that could be arranged.

‘Took a couple of months, mind. Keeping underground, realising that we could use the ferry service as a cover. Letting word of mouth spread subtly. We lived in Dublin, only took the journey once a week. Kept a low profile. We weren’t sure what we’d done, but we figured it wasn’t best to make a noise. And then… well, the newspaper thing came out, and for some reason I knew we’d gone a step too far. I don’t know if it was the picture with Christine in it, or the cheek that I’d let myself get quoted. But we looked at it, and we worried. But we figured we were doing good. We were making a lot of money, yeah, but we were really making a difference. Certainly a lot more than decorating. You know how it is.’

They all nodded.

‘And then… then it all happened. And I’m sorry – I’m sorry for you, and for all those people – and for Christine. But I dunno. Were we doing the right thing? I’ll always think we were, but I don’t know. I’ve just been sat in Cardiff, waiting for someone to find me, really. To tell me.’

‘OK,’ said Jack.

‘And?’ Ross looked up, his beautiful face somehow tired and stretched and marked. ‘Did I do the right thing?’

Jack shrugged. ‘We feel how we think. There’s a bigger picture here – and it depends how much of it you want to see. On every flea another flea feeds. And what suck’d you first suck’d me. John Donne, maybe. Do you know what will happen to Ianto? Can you cure him?’

Ross shook his head. ‘Only the device can do that. Maybe. You really don’t have it?’ He looked suddenly hopeful.

Ianto smiled. ‘No. And I don’t think we would give it to you if we had it.’

‘It’s a toy of the gods,’ said Jack, his face hardening. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

Ross looked terribly sad.

Jack scraped his chair back and stood up. ‘Come on, Ianto, we have work to do. Thank you for your time. We shan’t meet again, Mr Kielty. Make the most of your life.’

He strode away.

Ianto turned and shrugged, the movement suddenly all wrong in the body. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said, and walked off into the rain.

Ross watched the figure of his wife walk down the road, turn a corner, and vanish for ever.

IANTO IS EXPLAINING HOW
COFFEE IS LIKE LIFE

They didn’t talk on the way back to the Hub, though Jack was swearing at each and every traffic light. They parked, and Jack strode ahead, his coat billowing in the rain.

Ianto followed behind, limping slightly and cursing his choice of shoes – strange little heels that scooped in the rain and soaked his toes and the skirt just felt wrong, and the pants had shifted, attacking his bum like cheesewire and… Oh, never mind.

They walked down the fire escape without talking, and Jack stomped into Torchwood. He marched up to his map of the energy cloud, and groaned. Then he threw his coat down and slumped across a sofa.

Ianto hovered, felt ridiculous, and pottered through into his area, where he started to bang about. ‘The secret is not to burn the beans. Well, scald, really. Coffee scalds at 98 degrees. A lot of baristas insist on 100 degrees when they make their coffee – lots of steam and effect, but you ruin the flavour. That’s why it tastes like it’s made from old batteries – and that’s why you drown it in milk and ginger and cream and foam and chocolate sprinkles – there’s something wrong with the fundamental ingredient, and rather than admit it, you press on, you dress it up, you disguise it. You don’t talk about the problem, you wrap it up in sugar and glitter. Isn’t that right?’

He handed Jack a cup, who took it automatically. Didn’t say anything, not even thanks.

Ianto sat down on the sofa next to him, legs not quite in the right order, sipping carefully at his own cup and waiting.

He waited for a full two minutes before Jack looked him in the eye. And then Jack smiled, and cuffed him gently on the ear. ‘Oh, Ianto Jones,’ he said, and stopped.

‘What’s wrong? Are we going to talk about it?’

Jack sipped the coffee.

‘Oh, Ianto. Owen and Gwen and Suzie and Tosh and you – you all spend so much time telling me that the world isn’t simple, that not all aliens are evil, that it’s worth working out why people are here – that I shouldn’t be the ruthless dark one. And sometimes you’re right. And sometimes you’re wrong. All this is my fault. All this is because I made an agreement. An arrangement.’

He sipped the coffee again and gave Ianto a look that made him feel very frightened.

GWEN IS NOWHERE, AND IT’S
FOR BLOODY EVER

Around her, the old house creaked and yawned, timber cracking like a weary boat at sea. And she just stood there, feet planted solidly on the off-cream carpet, frozen in time just between the sofa and the coffee table.

Time moved oddly around her, and she recognised the pull in the air of Rift Energy. Which started to explain things. Emma’s little device had reached out and trapped her just outside now. And she wasn’t alone. She could sense other figures, distantly, as though across a vast space. She tried shouting but couldn’t – if she squinted she could somehow perceive about a dozen female figures stood-stock still a long way away… all of them done up to the nines and dressed to kill. She realised she was glimpsing the missing women from speed-dating. They were still there in Tombola’s. She wondered how they were coping after several days outside of time.

It was a place that was, to be frank, boring and very itchy. She was burning with the desire to scratch her left leg. Left leg first, and then definitely right bum cheek, upper back and then her nose. Plus behind both ears. Urgggh.

Her feet ached. She wondered how much worse that would get. And how much more tired she would get. She ached, she felt tired. She wanted to curl up and sleep. But she couldn’t really move. And all around her was the world of Emma’s flat – eternity spread out across the lounge and towards the kitchenette.

And blocking the view of the universe were Rhys and Emma kissing. They were getting ready to go out, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. She screamed herself hoarse, yelling out Rhys’s name with rage and fear and panic and fury. But no. Nothing.

Emma kissed Rhys on the cheek. ‘And where are you taking me? Is it somewhere wonderful? It had better be.’