Risk Assessment (2 page)

She handed out the bacon rolls. They took them wordlessly. Ianto carefully, neatly unwrapped his. Jack just started tearing into his, savagely.

I wonder when he’s last eaten,
she thought.
And I know he says he doesn’t really sleep, but he looks like he could do with crawling under a duvet and staying there all weekend.

Weekend? God, what day was it? Gwen thought about this, and didn’t even have an answer. She was just so tired and miserable. The last week had been so stressful, living in a constant state of suspense, and too worried to even tell Rhys. She was shattered. They all were. How much longer would this go on for?

Jack and Ianto weren’t speaking, she noticed. They were tiptoeing round each other. Almost like . . . no, they
had
had a row. And that was another sign of how mad things were. Jack and Ianto never rowed. Shagged like rabbits, occasionally shot at each other, but never actual couple-y things like a row. Blimey. She toyed with ringing up Martha. For a chat, a pre-wedding gossip, something boring and normal.

Jack strode away towards his office, wiping the bacon fat off onto a fistful of naval charts. He started making angry little pencil scribbles in the margins.

Gwen gave Ianto a sympathetic glance.

‘He’s frightened, isn’t he?’

‘Aren’t you?’ Ianto was talking with his mouth full. Another sign of the end of the world.

‘I feel so helpless. All that work, and now we can’t really do anything. Except wait for the worst to happen.’

Ianto nodded. And then he leant over, confidentially. ‘We need a bit of a break, I think. There’s nothing we can really do, is there? I was wondering about bunking off.’

‘What?’ Gwen laughed, and then shushed herself like she was in a library. ‘Like nip up to the Red Dragon and watch a nice romantic comedy?’

‘Or bowling,’ considered Ianto. ‘I mean, we could do that. But I was wondering about a Weevil hunt. There’s a couple out in the sewers.’

Gwen grinned. ‘After all this, yes. That would be so bloody normal.’

‘Normal?’ boomed Jack. He stood over them, smiling. Much like his old self. ‘I never do normal.’

And that’s when the invisible lift above them swung into action.

They all stared up, aghast. They were the only people in Cardiff who knew that if you stepped on a certain slab in a certain way, complicated machinery under the water tower would lower you down into the heart of Torchwood.

But the lift had opened. Rain was pouring in. They all ran forward. For an instant, Gwen had an absurd notion of a startled Japanese tourist, snapping excitedly away as they came down. But the reality was far, far stranger.

All of them stood there, open-mouthed, as the lift revealed its passenger.

Standing on the lift’s stone slab was an elegant woman dressed in elaborate Victorian clothes. She was holding a parasol and a carpet bag, and she had fixed them all with a prim, complacent smile. She appeared unconcerned by the speed of the lift. She just looked completely at ease, like Mary Poppins’ posher sister. In control. She seemed totally at home in the Hub.

Behind her, Gwen heard Jack use a word. It was, she thought, the very last word she’d ever imagine him using. It just didn’t seem like him. But it was short, and rude and surprisingly blunt.

As the lift came to the bottom with a smooth click, the woman . . . no, the
lady
strode forward, reaching out a gloved hand to Jack.

‘Harkness,’ she said crisply. ‘My compliments on still being here. Am I to take it that you are now in charge?’

Jack nodded. ‘Like a bad penny, ma’am.’ He sounded grim. But also . . . afraid?

The woman looked around her and fixed her eyes on Gwen and Ianto.

‘Well, Captain,’ she said, her voice purring with carefully controlled elocution, ‘are you going to introduce me to your colleagues?’

Jack turned around, face squirming like he had a mouthful of slugs. ‘This . . .’ his voice dried, and he began again, ‘Gwen Cooper. Ianto Jones, may I introduce you to Miss Agnes Havisham?’

Do you know what, thought Gwen to herself, bugger me backwards with a bent pole, now I’ve seen it all.

II

BLEEDING HEART

YARD

In which something quite remarkable must account for herself, there is sad mention of a submarine, and the domestic skills of Mr Jones are brought into question

They were all sitting in the Boardroom. Rather like a loveless marriage, Agnes was at one end of the enormous table and Jack at the other. Gwen sat tactfully in between, and warmed up a carefully friendly expression.

Ianto brought in coffee. He offered Agnes a cup. She looked up at him with her blue eyes and smiled brightly. ‘Why, thank you so much, dear child, but could I possibly have a cup of tea? If that is not too much trouble?’ Her smile widened a little more, and Ianto hurried away.

For a minute, there were just the three of them in the room. Agnes looked around herself placidly. ‘Well, this is nice,’ she said. ‘Most pleasant, to be sure.’

Gwen nodded. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘Did you have a pleasant journey?’ murmured Jack.

Agnes looked at him sharply and then beamed at Gwen. ‘Miss Cooper, my dear, did you know, in the old days, when I awoke, I would be greeted with a carriage or, in recent times, a limousine. Positively spoiled, really.’ She giggled. ‘But Captain Harkness knows me better than that. I am a martyr to self-sufficiency. I made my way here using First Great Western.’

‘Ohhhhhh,’ groaned Jack despondently.

‘Quite,’ said Agnes. ‘The seat had fleas.’

A silence settled on the room.

Ianto returned, carrying a cup on a trembling saucer and a teapot. He set them down before Agnes and scurried over to sit near Gwen.

Agnes looked around expectantly. ‘Will the others be joining us?’

Jack coughed. He’d once spent two thousand years underground. To Gwen, he looked as though he was contemplating burying himself again.

‘This is it, Miss Havisham,’ he said, eventually. ‘My Team!’

‘Really?’ said Agnes, and she looked at Ianto and Gwen. Hard. And then back at Jack. ‘Are you trying to tell me, Captain Harkness, that the entire staff of Torchwood Cardiff now consists of a woman in trousers and a tea boy?’

‘. . .  yes,’ whispered Jack.

Agnes reached into her carpet bag, took out a leather-bound notebook, folded open a fresh page and made a careful little note with a fountain pen, all the time staring straight at Jack.

‘There were two more,’ said Jack sadly. ‘But they died.’

‘How unfortunate,’ said Agnes flatly. ‘I always wondered what would become of this place if you were in charge of it. Not much, clearly. Next you’ll be saying you’ve lost the submarine.’

Jack winced.

Agnes sighed witheringly.

‘Sorry!’ said Gwen, brightly.

Agnes glanced at her. ‘Yes?’

Gwen tried out her best smile. ‘Hello. Yes. Excuse me, but who are you?’

Agnes chuckled, a short, deprecating little laugh. ‘You can’t mean, my dear Miss Cooper, that Captain Harkness hasn’t told you about me? Goodness me, what an oversight!’ She clucked with amusement. ‘Out of sight, out of mind, dear Harkness,’ she said, and turned back to Gwen.

‘I am Torchwood’s Assessor, my dear,’ she said, her voice rising to ring around the room with authority. ‘I was charged by Queen Victoria to watch over the future of Torchwood. Whenever there is a crisis at any of the Torchwood stations, I awake; I take charge, I monitor and, if necessary, I intervene. My authority is absolute, my decision is final, and my judgement is impeccable.’ She smiled. ‘The machinery is most discriminating – it knows I am to be aroused only at a moment of great chaos.’ She caught Jack smirking at
aroused
and stilled him with a glare. ‘Now, don’t be scared. I’ve only awoken four times in the last hundred years – and each time we were able to sort out the situation with the very minimum of fuss. I’m sure we should be able to muddle through admirably. Now, what seems to be the trouble?’

She folded her hands and glanced around expectantly. No one said a word.

‘Captain Harkness?’ said Agnes, her voice already sounding a little tired.

‘Oh,’ said Jack. ‘Well, that was why we were so . . . taken aback at your visit. Not that it isn’t always a pleasure . . . it’s just . . .’ He paused.

Oh my God, thought Gwen, he’s actually frightened of her. She appraised Agnes. A few years older than her, tall, with strong, regular features and a stern expression. Normally the kind of ice queen Jack went for like a terrier for roast beef. But no . . . he seemed really worried. And sheepish. Wow.

Agnes seemed to notice her appraisal. She tilted her head slightly at Gwen and almost seemed to wink. Then she turned back to Jack. ‘Yes, Captain Harkness?’

Jack scratched at the dirt under a nail. ‘Well, there’s so little on really. Just a couple of Weevils on the loose.’

‘Really?’ Agnes wrote something in her book. Gwen hoped it wasn’t ‘bollocks’. ‘And the alarms went off purely because of that? How extraordinary.’

‘The systems are very old,’ put in Ianto. He looked about 12, thought Gwen.

‘Why yes, they are, to be sure,’ agreed Agnes. ‘But I’m sure you keep them excellently maintained. All that brass and levers – must keep you on your knees quite a bit. I know how Captain Harkness admires a well-polished knob.’

Gwen spat out her coffee.

‘Something to say, Miss Cooper?’ asked Agnes.

Gwen shook her head. Jack was trying not to catch her eye, and she felt like she was back at school watching Willy Griffith getting sent to the naughty step for looking up girls’ skirts. The more trouble he got in, the bigger his grin would get. Of course, once he’d got out of short trousers it had been less fun, but there was something of the perpetually grinning naughty 8-year-old about Jack.

Agnes shut her book. ‘Well, well, well, what a mystery we have here! I’ve always loved mysteries. Still, while we’re here, perhaps we should go and hunt some Weevils. Captain Harkness, I presume you have some guest quarters to put at my disposal?’

‘Gwen will show you the way,’ said Jack, dully.

Agnes stood, smoothing down her skirt. ‘Very well, then. I shall retire to my chambers, freshen up, and then perhaps we could strike out for town?’

Gwen opened the door of the cell. ‘Our very best guest suite!’ she said brightly.

Agnes strode in after her, and sniffed disapprovingly. It reminded Gwen of whenever her mum came to visit. She and Rhys could spend about a week tidying the flat, and it didn’t matter – her mum would zero in on a stray spot of dust or a tiny coffee stain. Only, in this case, Gwen could kind of see her point. The cell was bare, and clearly hadn’t seen the business end of Ianto’s duster for quite some time. A spartan bed and a chair were clumped in a corner. The fluorescent light was buzzing like an angry wasp.

‘Well,’ said Agnes after an icy pause. ‘It rather reminds me of the Crimea.’

Gwen walked over to the bed and started neatening up the sheets. ‘I’m sure it’s better than it looks,’ she pressed on, making a brave attempt at a hospital corner.

Agnes took another step into the room, advancing towards the bed like a nervous cat. She sat down on the old woollen blanket, and, just for a second her poise quite deserted her. She let out a long breath, and her shoulders slumped. ‘I am so tired. I know that seems a strange thing to say after being asleep for thirty years, but it’s God’s honest truth.’

Gwen looked at her. She just couldn’t quite work this woman out. She just seemed so strange, so unusual and, just for a second, so vulnerable.

And then the cloud passed, and Agnes sat bolt upright. ‘Well, Miss Cooper, thank you for doing your best.’

‘Call me Gwen, please,’ urged Gwen. ‘And I’m a Mrs, actually.’

Agnes looked interested. ‘So, is there a Mr Cooper, then?’ she asked.

‘Well, yes,’ said Gwen, suddenly feeling she’d sailed into choppy waters. ‘Well, no. You see, he’s Mr Williams. I kept my maiden name when I got married.’

‘I see,’ said Agnes, and again there was a pause. ‘How thrillingly modern that must be for you, my dear.’ Her smile was a little too bright. ‘And tell me – does Mr Williams also work for the Torchwood Institute in some capacity?’

‘Oh God, no!’ exclaimed Gwen. ‘He’s a lovely normal bloke. He works in haulage.’

‘Oh!’ Agnes seemed genuinely startled. ‘A drayman? What a rarity. One hears stories of these matches working out, but really you are quite to be applauded, my dear. Had I realised that, I needn’t have risked that railway. I could have telegraphed on ahead and your splendid young gentleman could have conveyed me in one of his no doubt handsome carriages.’ A tiny pause. ‘Oh – that is, I hope I am not presuming . . . he does have carriages, doesn’t he, dear? I cannot imagine you engaging in matrimony with a man responsible solely for carts.’

‘He doesn’t drive a horse and cart,’ Gwen felt herself needing to explain, and also vaguely defensive on Rhys’s behalf. ‘It’s quite a complicated occupation these days.’