TORCHWOOD:
THE END IS WHERE
PART ONE
Chapter 1
July 2009
Somehow, it always came back to coffee.
Sighing, Ianto Jones, dropped the tub of Maxwell House Rich & Full Coffee Granules – the best coffee for the best value, according to Associated Content – into the basket. All he needed now was a two-liter bottle of semi-skimmed and that was the weekly Torchwood shop done. Order-in pizza would take care of the rest.
Time had been that Ianto would have taken affront at the suggestion of using instant coffee, but, ever since Owen and Tosh… well, the perfect cappuccino just didn't seem quite so important. Owen had said it himself before he died – well, after he died – the first time – before he died again. Ianto was more than just a tea boy now.
For one thing, he was shagging the boss.
With that pleasant if sordid thought in mind, Ianto, en route to the Tesco tills, walked straight into someone stood in the middle of the shop floor. She, it was as she, as things transpired, mid-30s, a short bob of orange hair, pretty in a non-descript sort of way, spun off one shelf, collided with the other and ended up sprawled on the lino.
In a manner perhaps characteristically Welsh, Ianto swore, vehemently.
"Shit".
Then
"I mean, sorry. Jesus. So sorry".
Helping the still apparently dazed woman off the shop floor, Ianto stepped back, hands clasped, bowing compulsively. Christ. He got enough odd looks as it was, parading round the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon, a handsome, smooth-faced, cleft-chinned Welshman dressed in a suit-and-tails combo.
"You're Ianto Jones".
The statement came as something of a surprise.
"Am I? Oh, yes, how do you…"
"I know you."
Oh, God, if anything the whole situation had gotten even more embarrassing. Not only had he, Ianto Jones, knocked over a complete stranger while shopping it then transpired he in fact knew them, well enough that they would recognize him, Ianto Jones, on the street, at least if they were bumped into by him, he who absolutely no clue who they were.
Feigning delighted recognition, "Ah, yes, of course… um…" What was the most popular women's name in the UK? Olivia? No, but that was in 2008. She had to be at least thirty.
Then
"You don't know me".
"Oh".
He didn't know her and yet somehow she knew him. The crazy lady knew Ianto Jones. Ianto Jones did not know the crazy lady. A puzzle perhaps best left for when away from the garden implements section. Lots of things you can do with a trowel.
"Well, it's been lovely seeing you –"
A friendly smile. A polite nod. A familiar but not intrusive touch on the shoulder as he was moving past, then… a choking noise from behind him. Ianto turned.
"Oh, shit".
The crazy lady, a moniker somewhat lacking in dignity but not entirely unfair, was back on the floor again. But this time she was convulsing, eyes rolled back, muscles taut in agony, foaming at the mouth. Ianto was at her side in an instant.
"Somebody! Help!"
He tried rolling her onto her side, to put her in the recovery position. She thrashed wildly, as if an electric current was surging through her. Her attempted to place his tie in her mouth, to stop her biting off her tongue. Her gnashing teeth tore through the silk, staining the jagged edge with blood. She spasmed and shook and screamed in silence.
Finally, she stopped, her tense form relaxing suddenly. Dry-eyed and calm-faced, still lying on her side, she turned to Ianto, matter-of-factly.
"There's not much time left in the world".
And then she died.
It was only then, as he sat on the chequered lino beside a dead woman whose name he did not know, in a state of shocked serenity, that Ianto realized he had forgotten the milk.
***
"The dead woman's name is Caitlin McNamara, age 32, married, no children. Address registered as #27 Dylan Street, Cardiff Bay".
They were sat in the conference room now, ultra-modern chrome-and-wood, gathered around a long oval table with room for twice their number, two seats in particular pointedly empty.
Captain Jack Harkness, chisel-jawed and raven-haired, shirt and braces, their All-American man of action, stood at the front of the room. A screen behind him showed two photos, both of Caitlin McNamara, one alive and trying not to smile, presumably from a passport, the other dead and beyond caring, taken moments before in the morgue.
"Jack, how exactly did she die?"
That was Gwen, Gwen Williams nee Cooper, Bardic-voiced and doe-eyed jacket and jeans, the Welsh heart and soul of the team, concern evident in her voice.
"Well, the way Ianto described it, it not unlike a grand mal seizure. In her bloodwork I found traces of an unknown compound, presumably some sort of toxin".
"Thank you very much, Doctor Jones".
Captain Jack, mocking, all the affection in the world.
Martha, mocha-skinned and fine-boned, leather jacket and matching trousers, the newest member but no less experienced, head titled in an imitation of humility.
"You're very welcome, Captain Harkness".
Doctor Martha Jones, retorting, would-be flirtation in every syllable.
"And, Ianto", Jack, turning to his current beau, closest to him, "She said she knew you?"
"Yes, but the weird thing was, she said I didn't know her".
"Some sort of stalker?" Gwen's suggestion, nothing vindictive about it, offered with a shrug.
"No", Ianto's brow knitted in consternation, "I don't think so. There wasn't anything… salacious about her".
"Unlike me?"
A sly wink from Jack, that perfect smile. Ianto blushed. Gwen laughed, punching him on shoulder affectionately. Martha just stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised, arms crossed, watching them ironically. For the first time in a long while everything seemed to be getting back to normal. Well, normal according to the definition of a team of paranormal experts working to protect the world from alien invasion from within a secret high-tech base concealed under Roald Dahl Plass.
"It lists Caitlin's husband as a Craig McNamara. I should probably go visit him, find out if he knows anything, make sure he knows –"
"Alright". Jack to Gwen, a nod of agreement, "I'll join you. Ianto, you go through the dead woman's history, see if there's anything out of the usual. Owen, do a full autopsy report –"
An awkward silence descended. A few lingering seconds passed. Then
"Jack, um, is it possible you could grab me a birthday card while you're out. It's Rhiannon's thirtieth tomorrow and I didn't have a chance to grab her one, what with the whole…"
"Horrific stranger death."
"Yeah."
What followed could be termed an abrupt exit on all counts.
***
It was the height of a Cardiff summer morning when Jack and Gwen emerged from the rundown tourist shop, about as warm and sunny as the south-west coast of Britain is ever likely to get, yet still Jack had managed to don his thick woolen overcoat en route to the vehicle.
As he slid into the driver's seat and Gwen joined him in the passengers, she turned to her boss.
"Do you ever take that bloody thing off?"
"Why?"
The key turned, the ignition clicked, the engine thrummed.
"Well, for one thing, it's really quite hot".
The SUV pulled out of the private space from the narrow back alley along which it was parked and pulled out into the noonday traffic.
"Gwen, you think this is warm? I've been to Mars".
"Jack, I'm not an idiot. Despite it being called 'the red planet', I happen to know that Mars is bloody cold".
"Pfft! Scientists: what do they know".
"Jack… have you really been to Mars?"
"What do you think?"
"God, attacked by Daleks and still as sarky as ever."
"Been there, done that, got immortal."
"What?"
"Never mind."
They rambled on for the first couple of miles before slumping into a relaxed quietness. It was only when the van came to a stop at the traffic lights that Jack turned to Gwen and asked
"So, you and Rhys..?"
"Are fine thank you very much".
"Ooh, that's a bit pointed. Everything going okay in the marital bed".
Walloping him playfully in response, Gwen shook her head fitfully, exhaling her fringe from over her face. Then, a thought.
Guileful, "So, ah, how are you and Ianto doing?"
A beat. "Fine, thanks". Feigned nonchalance.
"You've been going out, what, six months now", gleeful.
"About that".
"Ah, young love. So, how is the happy couple".
Jack just groaned in response, slouching against the wheel.
"What?"
As soon as the lights turned, Jack hit the pedal.
Again, "What?"
"It's just… I don't like the word 'couple'. It seems so… restrictive. Numerically".
"Pair? Item? Ménage a trois… no, wait, that's three".
"Folie a deux?"
"Cute".
Jack leant in closer to Gwen, "I'm happy to make it a ménage a trois if –"
"Oh, no. One's plenty of romance for me, thank you very much".
Their arrival at the location on Dylan Street cut the conversation short. As the both undid their seatbelts, Jack turned to Gwen, met her gaze levelly, "To be continued".
"Yeah, in your dreams. Pervert".
Standing outside #27, a gold letter against a red door, Gwen rang the bell. Footfalls came from inside the house, then, a moment later, the door opened inwards to reveal a scholarly-looking man, circular wireframe spectacles and a mop of reddish blond hair.
"Hello?"
Jack stepped forward, smiling, friendly-professional mode, "Hi. Craig McNamara?"
"That's right."
Gwen intervened, "We're from… from the government. We're here about your wife".
Confusion flashed across the man's face, "My wife?"
As Gwen seemingly worked up the courage to break the news, Craig turned back into the house. Gwen opened her mouth to speak, an expression of regret foreshadowing her words, when
"Hi. Can I help you?"
Mrs. Caitlin McNamara, age 32, married, no children, alive and well at home, standing on the doorstep, gazing earnestly at her unexpected guests. Gwen's jaw dropped. Jack merely blinked.
"Mrs. McNamara?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Caitlin McNamara?"
"Yes."
"Ah". A pause. "Can we come in?"