Risk Assessment (4 page)

Suddenly, she stiffened as though something had changed in the air. ‘Bother,’ she breathed.

An instant later they crashed to a halt, the man falling across her lap. Eyes wide, he began to mumble an apology, but she wasn’t even listening.

Something was flung into the side of the carriage with a whinnying thump. ‘That’ll be the horses,’ she sighed. There was a scream from above them. ‘And that accounts for the driver.’

She stood up, instantly dominating the cramped space, and silencing the man with a glance. ‘Weevils, I’m afraid. We’re going to have to fight our way out. Can you master a flare?’

‘Why?’ stammered the man.

For the briefest instant she rested her hands on her hips before regaining her posture. ‘I am going to have to shoot them, and for that I need a distraction, which I am looking to you to provide, otherwise they’ll simply tear off my head when I poke it through the canopy. And a flare will be capital – quite a noise, and the light will improve my aim. It may even summon assistance, although I rather fear we are alone. Now – will you be able to manage to ignite it by yourself?’ She reached into a valise and handed him the flare.

Around them, the carriage was beginning to rock. The doors rattled and blows started to beat on the toughened glass.

She sat calmly down on the seat and began to load her gun. The man’s shaking hands fumbled helplessly with matches. Very close outside there came the roar of a hunting beast. She darted an exasperated glare at the man. ‘Here,’ she said, and handed him her gas lighter. ‘Even you can manage with that.’ She took a quick look at her surroundings, and breathed deeply. ‘Now, George Herbert – shall we mount our attack on the count of three? I trust that’s sufficient warning for you.’

He nodded. She counted and threw open the ceiling flap, loosing off shots. At exactly the same time, the man applied the lighter to the flare.

It lit up the interior of the cab magnesium white, trailing smoke as it sped round like a screaming firework. Outside, the cries became louder, and one of the windows shattered, a sharp claw breaking through. The flare howled through the gap, driving itself wetly into what was outside. There came an agonised cry, followed by a loud explosion that lit up the sky and broke windows in the surrounding buildings.

She ducked back in to find the carriage filled with sulphurous vapour. Something wet and green was dripping down the walls and the miserable face of the man. Carefully, she slipped her gun back in her valise.

‘Well,’ she said, passing him a handkerchief. ‘That appears to have dealt with them. You were supposed to throw the flare out through the roof – not let it off in here.’ She smiled at him with surprising fondness. ‘Oh, George Herbert, what are we going to do with you?’

Gwen only realised she’d fallen asleep in the bath when she heard Rhys walk in. He gently placed a cup of tea on the side for her, then sat down on the toilet lid. He was grinning broadly.

‘You’re in a good mood,’ he said.

Gwen blinked, picking foam from her cheek. ‘How can you tell?’

He shrugged. ‘You’re home before midnight. You’re in the bath. There isn’t half a kebab on the bed.’

Gwen sipped at the tea. ‘And that gives you the right to come in here? You realise that under all this foam I’m naked?’

Rhys nodded placidly, like she’d told him a not very interesting fact. ‘So, what brings on the good mood? Or is it a Top Torchwood Secret?’

‘Believe it or not,’ said Gwen, and told him about Agnes.

Rhys stared at her. ‘She sounds like my Auntie Joyce. You remember – the one we didn’t invite to the wedding, and not just because Uncle Hywel smells of dog.’

Gwen ducked her head. ‘Kind of. But more fun. Or maybe she’s just fun because Jack’s clearly terrified of her.’

‘Jack?’ Rhys laughed. ‘So, your boss finally gets beaten by an Iron Lady you keep in the fridge?’

‘Yeah,’ said Gwen. ‘And it’s taken our minds off. . . you know. . . the other thing. The really scary other thing that I’m not allowed to tell you about.’

‘Ah,’ said Rhys. ‘That still happening, is it?’

‘Oh yeah,’ murmured Gwen. ‘The End of the World.’ And she giggled.

Her phone rang. With a weary sigh, Rhys fished it out of her jeans and passed it to her. It was Jack.

‘How’s your girlfriend?’ asked Gwen.

‘Agnes is fine,’ said Jack brightly.

‘She there with you?’

‘Of course not!’ beamed Jack. ‘I’m as far away from her as possible.’

‘Hmm,’ said Gwen. ‘Up on a roof, then?’

A pause. ‘Might be,’ admitted Jack. ‘It’s raining a bit, but the view is still quite something.’

‘That’s lovely for you,’ enthused Gwen. ‘So long as you’re not looking through my bathroom window.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it! Peeping’s Ianto’s hobby. I stick to Morris Dancing and shoplifting.’

‘Any plans for what we’re doing with Agnes?’ asked Gwen.

‘Trust me – it’s all going fine,’ said Jack, far too casually. ‘She’s an old-fashioned sort – she’s thrown her weight around, had an outfit change, and shot some livestock. We’ll have her back in the deep freeze before elevenses tomorrow.’

‘And you don’t think she suspects anything?’ said Gwen, dropping her voice in a way that made Rhys roll his eyes. ‘You know. . . about. . . The Other Thing?’

‘Oh, she’s suspicious,’ Jack admitted. ‘But Agnes is always suspicious. She’s that kind of girl. And I’m that kind of boy. But I’m fairly sure she’s got no idea about the coffins.’

‘That’s a relief,’ said Gwen. ‘If we can just keep it that way for a few more hours. . .’

‘Yeah,’ said Jack, ‘We might just get away with it. Just tell me you won’t say anything tomorrow. She can be very persuasive.’

‘Not a word,’ promised Gwen.

‘That’s my girl. Just leave Little Bo Peep to me,’ said Jack. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He hung up.

Gwen handed the phone back to Rhys and sank back into the bath.

‘Are you going to be much longer?’ he asked. ‘It’s just I’m dying for a slash.’

‘Oh,’ said Gwen, and started to think about getting out of the bath. Maybe watch some TV before bed. Do whatever it was that normal people did.

And then her phone bleeped. It was a text message. Gwen read it.

‘Dear Mrs Cooper. My compliments. I do hope you are well and would be delighted if you could please explain to me: what coffins? Yours sincerely, AH.’

‘Little Bo Peep?’

Jack didn’t even turn around. He carried on looking out across the city to the sea. ‘Well,’ he said after a while. ‘That dress is very frilly, Agnes. How did you find me?’

‘You’ve always found roofs irresistible.’ Agnes strode out onto the roof and looked around, shivering in the wind. ‘Along with, if memory serves, footmen. You can’t resist shinning up either.’

Jack smirked.

‘Plus I placed a tracker on you in the Weevil hunt this afternoon. Never waste a skirmish, that’s what I say.’ Agnes picked some dust off her shoulder. ‘Although how you got up here is quite the mystery to me. It took me ages to charm the doorman. What exactly is a strip-o-gram, anyway?’ She paused. ‘I can only presume you have in place a complicated system of skeleton keys, bribery and sexual molestation.’ She sniffed. ‘Which at least demonstrates you’re capable of the basics of organisation.’

She stood alongside Jack, following his gaze. They looked out, over the city. It was brisk, and the wind pulled at Agnes’s tightly wound hair. She shuddered. ‘This is a cold, high place overlooking the university. Do people really dwell in such towers?’

Jack didn’t reply. They just stood, watching the night and listening to distant sirens.

‘What is going on, Harkness? I’ve managed to unpick your shenanigans without even really having to try. It’s best that you make a clean breast of it, and then I’ll decide whether or not to call in the authorities. I’m not actually an unreasonable woman, you know.’

‘You’re not actually a woman,’ Jack managed not to say. He nodded. ‘Can’t tell a lie, Agnes,’ he began. ‘I’ve been lying to you. For your own good. Really.’

‘Really?’ Agnes looked out to sea, and squinted. ‘What is going on out there, Harkness?’

Jack turned slightly and shrugged. ‘Let’s start again. Tomorrow morning. I’ll tell you the truth.’

‘From the very beginning?’ asked Agnes.

‘A new chapter,’ vowed Jack.

IV

MOSTLY, PRUNES

AND PRISM

In which our heroes start afresh, tea is taken, and disappearances are discussed

When they reconvened in the Hub the next morning, Agnes was obviously in charge. Jack had cleared out his office for her already, and now perched awkwardly at a workstation, looking like an adult at a school desk. Gwen couldn’t meet his eye – somehow, she was convinced that the text message thing was her fault.

Agnes stood in the Boardroom, politely waiting for them to come in. Jack slumped in a chair, sullenly. Gwen sat away from him. Ianto came in, hesitantly bearing a pot of tea and four china cups. Jack fixed him with a glare that said ‘
Et tu Brute?
’

After the meeting, Jack took Agnes out for tea. Ianto and Gwen watched Jack, wearing a false air of bonhomie, hand Agnes up onto the invisible lift. And then the two ascended, like statues on a wedding cake.

‘She is something else,’ whispered Gwen.

‘Something not entirely real,’ said Ianto.

‘I know what you mean,’ said Gwen. They were washing up the cups together in Torchwood’s tiny kitchen, an area Ianto called the Butler’s Pantry. ‘It’s kind of like exactly the opposite of a hen night.’

Ianto looked at her blankly. ‘No, it’s not so much that. I’m serious – she’s not entirely real. I’ve looked her up in the Torchwood Archives.’

Gwen whistled. ‘That’s brave, Ianto. She’ll give you a slippering for that. And I doubt she’ll go easy on you like Jack.’

Ianto flushed, briefly, and coughed. ‘I just wondered – I expected her to be in the computer, but not, you know. . . accessible.’

‘And?’ Gwen was burning with curiosity.

‘She’s not. There is no one called Agnes Havisham in the Archives. She doesn’t exist.’

The alien leaned over, its salted breath too close for comfort. ‘It is the female of the species. Look at the weak thorax.’ The voice hissed sulphurously, a tiny tongue darting across the dry, thin lips.

Its immaculately suited companion grinned. ‘My dear Slyrr, it is just a woman. They pose no threat to man nor beast.’

The alien placed its stubby hands on its armoured hips and surveyed her curiously. ‘Your women do not fight? Given their inferior construction, this does not surprise me.’

The man rested a hand on his cane. ‘Fighting is not fit work for women. Every now and then one hears of distant savage tribes where women battle alongside their menfolk. But not here.’

‘Indeed?’ the alien hissed. ‘And what employment do you find for them in your society? Are they breeding stock?’

The man laughed gently and looked at her. ‘I am sorry, my dear. My companion Slyrr is somewhat lacking in the delicacies.’ He turned back to his alien friend. ‘There is an element of that, especially among the lower orders, but mostly they are occupied in genteel accomplishments, such as weaving and music.’ His cane indicated her hands. ‘See, such a lovely alabaster complexion.’

‘Noted,’ hissed the alien, its boredom clear. ‘My question is whether or not we should terminate this specimen?’

The man shrugged, and looked at the woman regretfully. ‘Well, in this case, I guess there’s no harm in it. Sorry, my dear.’

The alien reached for the stubby weapon concealed in its belt. And then whipped round, alarmed. ‘Henderson!’ it barked. ‘Where is my gun?’

‘Here,’ she said, simply, and shot them both.

Jack and Agnes were taking tea. Agnes slid her formica tray despondently along the counter, glaring balefully at its contents.

‘You know, Harkness, this place once used to do the only proper tea in Cardiff. Crusts sliced neatly off of sandwiches, bone china, and table service from only mildly slatternly waitresses. How times have changed.’ She glanced back at the counter, and then pointed at something sealed in plastic. ‘Good afternoon. What is that, please?’ she asked the smiling woman behind the counter.

‘Why, it’s a chocolate flake cluster, dear.’

‘I see.’ Agnes’s hand jabbed at a boxed sandwich. ‘And is that really a fresh egg sandwich?’

‘That’s right,’ the woman replied, patiently. ‘It’s made in Merthyr.’

‘That is hardly a recommendation,’ muttered Agnes tartly.

Jack paid, and they found a table, away from the young mothers and old couples. Agnes stared in horrified fascination at her cup, yanking the teabag out by its string and letting it twist in the air unhappily before letting it sink back in. ‘I can hardly bear to taste the tea of the future,’ she sighed.