Risk Assessment (9 page)

‘Business as usual,’ smiled Gwen.

‘Quite,’ said Agnes, echoing the smile. She looked around the bar. ‘Oh yes, it couldn’t happen to a nicer city. And there was this gal up in Scotland, Alice Guppy. Dear creature, very bright, serious as the tomb, but couldn’t hold a teacup without crooking her little finger. No one knew what to do with her. . . And so we shipped her down here.’ She turned in her seat and glared at a passing waitress, who slouched over. ‘My dear,’ smiled Agnes, ‘I don’t suppose you have a sherry, do you?’

‘End of the bloody world,’ sighed Jack, prodding at the decomposing sample.

Ianto looked up from neatening Gwen’s desk. ‘Jack?’

‘That woman.’ Jack’s tone was sour. He rearranged his braces, distractedly, which gave him the air of an old-fashioned comedian about to tell a joke about his mother-in-law. ‘Why does she always have to be right?’

Ianto gently laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘Because otherwise she wouldn’t be so annoying.’

And Jack took the hand, and smiled.

‘And what, pray, is this?’ giggled Agnes. She’d untied her bonnet and it rested unsteadily on the seat next to them. She stared curiously at the tiny glass in front of her. ‘It seems but a thimble, yet it savours rather strongly of spirits.’ She looked at Gwen with mock disapproval, and then hiccupped. ‘Oh dear, I’m afraid I’m getting a bit Mrs Gaskell in my cups.’ She raised the glass, sniffed at it again, and then downed it in one with barely a shudder. ‘Nope. My father taught me, quietly, all the various types of rum and it most certainly isn’t of those. He feared I would take after mama’s Scottish heritage and was keen to teach me about things other than a single malt. Which,’ her face flushed, ‘isn’t really what a father is supposed to distil in his offspring – instil rather – only. . . oh, he so wanted a son and was delighted when I could shoot straight.’

Gwen sipped carefully at her zambuca. The Welsh truth serum was working its wonders.

‘Why another!’ roared Agnes, happily, slapping the table and startling a waitress into action. ‘There’s a liquorice savour about it which rather tickles the. . . Why, Mrs Cooper, I declare you have me tipsy.’ And a slow smile spread across her features. ‘I know what you’re doing, you know,’ she said, slyly.

‘What?’ Gwen decided on mock innocence. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You are trying to get me inebriated in hopes that I’ll tell you about myself. There’s no need to worry – I’ll gladly tell you whatever you want to know. Consider me an open book, my dear friend.’

And Agnes plucked refilled glasses from a tray and used a gloved hand to wave away the waitress.

‘So you don’t mind me dragging you out and getting you drunk?’

‘Not at all!’ Agnes laughed. Around them the Bay was filling up, as the residents realised it wasn’t going to rain after all, and so decided to make the most of a reasonable evening, wandering from bar to restaurant to bar, sitting wrapped up outside to smoke in the icy air, or crammed up against a variety of over-designed tables.

Agnes looked around and sighed. ‘Oh dear, I sound most approving of all of this debauch. I must tell you, I think there is nothing sadder than the belief that a good time can be had solely with alcoholic beverages and associating with people of only the very lowest sort.’

‘Quite right,’ said Gwen and they clinked glasses.

They smiled at each other across the table.

‘Pump away, dear friend,’ said Agnes.

‘Well, you were a proper Torchwood agent?’

Agnes nodded solemnly. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Well. . . how did your parents feel about you joining Torchwood. I mean, surely. . .’

‘Oh. . .’ Agnes looked melancholy for a second. ‘Best not, dear Mrs Cooper. Ask me another.’

‘It’s just. . . Well, you’re not in the computer.’

Agnes wagged a mildly drunken finger. ‘Naughty Mrs Cooper. But of course I’m not. Well, I am, but you see. . . Agnes Havisham isn’t my real name.’

‘Oh,’ said Gwen.

‘Ah. Late 1901 it was, when the chamber was finally prepared. When I became the Assessor, it was decided to leave all that behind. After all, if I have a past, how can I control the future?’

‘That’s a bit. . . pompous?’

‘Ah.’ Agnes tapped the side of her nose. ‘It was a pronouncement of Victoria Regina herself.’

‘You knew her?’ Gwen gasped.

‘Oh, just a little, and she was as mad as a box of March hares by then. . . but yes. Frighteningly intimidating woman. And, wherever she went, the rustle rustle rustle of all those skirts. And the smell of naphtha. Actually, underneath all the starch and cobwebs, she had a wicked sense of humour. She let me pick my own name. . . and it was either Agnes Havisham or Betsey Trotwood.’

‘But your real name. . .?’

‘Ohhh,’ Agnes sighed, and pushed a hand through her hair. ‘It’s so long ago and I don’t think it matters to anyone. It was just one more thing to give up in the line of duty.’

‘Well,’ said Gwen. ‘You are remarkable.’

‘Why thank you, but that’s not a question.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant. You see. . . you come from a time when independent women were few and far between. . . you know.’

‘Oh, dashed Florence and her blessed lamp!’

‘Exactly. And yet. . . you. . .’

‘Fought monsters and foiled conspiracies and blew really big things to smithereens. The real thing, you might say!’

‘Yes. But what made you give it up? I mean, to assign yourself to. . . well, leaving your entire life behind, to living out history?’

‘Ohhhhhhh, the big one.’ Agnes stared at the glass in front of her and sighed. ‘Every time I sleep, it seems I wake up in another time. . . and I feel more and more out of my depth. Especially now that Jack tells me that I’m alone. That you three are all that remains of Torchwood. It really. . .’ She drained the glass, banged it on the table, and suddenly stared sharply at Gwen. ‘I did it for love, you know.’

‘Really?’ Gwen smiled. ‘It’s just that Love and Torchwood aren’t exactly. . .’

‘Well, exactly. Oh, don’t worry, my dear, he didn’t die. . . no, it was worse.’ Agnes settled back in her chair, and begin to fiddle with the placemats. ‘You see, he was. . . George Herbert Sanderson. He was a brilliant young scientist at Torchwood. A brain to be protected. And we were very much in love. However, he was working on a stardrive that had been recovered from a ship. And, believe it or not, he repaired it. He even managed to work out the planet of origin. A distant world of riches and wonders who were in need of assistance. And he asked permission to voyage there on behalf of the British Empire. Victoria herself, the dear Queen, was delighted by the novelty of the concept, although it would come to fruition only long after she passed through the veil. You see, my dear, George’s journey, even with this drive, would take him a long time. Over a hundred years. I asked him not to go, but he looked at me, and I knew that there would be no dissuading him. And sometimes you have to let them go. . . But I never give up without a fight. So, when the post of Assessor came up, I volunteered for it. I waved off his rocket ship, knowing full well that one day I would be there when he returned, God willing. And really, it works out rather well. . . in its own peculiar way. He’s awake but the speeds he travels at rather bend time. It’s all rather complex. Suffice it to say that whenever I am awake I can communicate with him via radioscope. I can hear his voice and he can hear mine. And there we are, two lovers split by time and space. But one day, he will return. And I’ll make sure that this world is in good shape for him.’

Gwen just stared at Agnes.

‘Have I said too much?’ asked Agnes.

‘No,’ said Gwen. ‘Wow.’

‘But it is a most elegant solution, is it not?’

‘You’ve certainly got balls, that’s all I’ll say.’

Agnes smiled. ‘I think you’ve had quite enough to drink, my dear.’

‘No, really,’ said Gwen, reaching out an arm and hoping to catch a waitress. ‘One more before we go back. I think we can grab a pizza on the way. You see, there’s one more thing I’m dying to ask you.’ And she giggled and leaned forward. Agnes did too. ‘You and. . . Well, it’s about Jack. Tell me about him.’

‘Ah,’ said Agnes, and her smile stretched. ‘Captain Jack Harkness. Well, I can tell you that he’s hammering on the window.’

IX

WHO PASSES BY

THIS ROAD SO LATE?

In which Miss Rogers fails to purchase a train set, and a siege is laid

She’d always liked toy shops. Nina Rogers skipped a few tracks on her MP3 player and looked around her. Every aisle was a different dream – teddy bears, board games, princess outfits, racer bikes, football kits and train sets. She was watching an elaborately laid-out train set right now. It raced round and round – stopping at a little station, going through a tunnel, chugging past little waving model people and miniature houses, and it was all perfect and somehow sunny. Nothing ever changed. No one got on or off, but the train just raced round and aroud this perfect afternoon.

It was just what she needed. She caught herself checking her phone again. Of course she hadn’t missed a call. Or even a text. Just a text would have been OK. Even if it said something bad. She turned back to the train. It gave a tinny little whistle and she grinned. She was cheered up.

The thing is, it wasn’t a great day. Now Sunday – that had been a great night. She hadn’t even been that drunk when she’d met him, and he was lovely and she’d skipped lectures on Monday and he’d taken her out for lunch at a café, and he had promised he’d call.

And it was now Thursday and not a peep. Of course, she was a big girl and these things no longer really hurt. She just got annoyed at how excited she got. Every time she sensed something starting, it was like things were painted in a glossy new colour and she got all giggly.

Plus she was in the middle of another essay crisis, and she really could have done with that 11 o’clock lecture on Monday morning. She’d borrowed Jessica’s notes, but they’d told her nothing other than that she’d missed a really useful lecture. And so had Jess, seemingly. Oh well, she’d muddle through. A walk across the bridge, some hot dogs from Ikea, and then she’d sneak a pot of coffee into the library and spend an evening surrounded by books.

Maybe she’d find Tess as well. Tess, who’d been mocking her all week. ‘So, when do we meet him? What’s he like? Has he got you a ring yet? I bet he’s got you a ring.’ She knew Tess would be cruel but also more than happy to come along to the library. New Year’s Resolution:
Get friends who actually like me more.

The lights flickered in the store, and, for an instant, the train juddered in its perpetual glide around the track. Coming back to life, she wandered off around the toy shop. Down a nearby aisle, she saw a proud father trying out a computer game with his 8-year-old yelling on, unimpressed. She could see that the dad was half letting himself be led, half annoyed that he wasn’t better at the game. ‘No, Dad – you can use the red things. But if you don’t let go of them quickly, then. . . you see. You’re stupid, Dad.’

Nina decided that the word ‘stupid’ never sounded more devastating than when uttered in a thick Welsh accent. She smiled, and, just for an instant, the dad smiled at her too. And then, with a tiny wink, he turned back to the game, frowning in concentration while his son looked on.

Nina moved down the aisle, heading towards some weird kind of gothicky dolls. A grandmother was squinting down disapprovingly while a tiny girl in dungarees and bunches pointed critically at each one. ‘Now, Nan,’ she was saying, ‘that one’s Sister Slay – she comes with a choice of undertaker’s outfit or butcher’s apron. It’s real good.’

‘Yes, dear,’ replied the old lady uncertainly, nervously tucking her hair under her woollen hat. ‘I’m quite sure it’s very nice. I had ever such a lovely teddy. . .’

The child ignored her, plucking another of the dolls off the shelf and shaking it. It made a screaming noise.

The lights flickered again, the train juddered, and Nina heard rain beating down on the concrete ceiling. Most people seemed unaffected, but there was a disappointed yell from the dad up the aisle – evidently his computer game had reset itself.

Nina mooched on, aware that the staff were calling closing time. She toyed with buying an inflatable slide, but dreaded to think how she’d inflate it, let alone fit it in her poky college room. Which reminded her that she was supposed to be flat-hunting. And that just depressed her even more.

When she’d first turned up in Cardiff, she wouldn’t have been able to rent a studio flat out beyond Ikea. When she’d first started looking around, Cardiff estate agents had sneered before putting her on the waiting list for something behind Cathays Lidl with a combi boiler over the mouldy sink. Now she’d walk into their empty offices, windows crammed full of empty houses, and they’d smile and smile and smile. Things were so bad, they’d probably let her rent somewhere in SkyPoint, which was just mad when you thought about it. Which was why she was putting it off. She didn’t like it when things weren’t real.

The lights in the shop stuttered a further time, and the tannoy called out lazily, ‘It’s 8 o’clock, and the store is now closed. Please make your way promptly to the checkout with your purchases.’ A handful of bored staff stood behind the tills, lopsided smiles on their faces as they urged everyone to go home.