CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"You better think about what you're trying to do to me."
Aretha Franklin
Jack sighed as he stood under the spray from the shower, listening to it resonating inside his throbbing head as he pressed his palms flat against the tiled wall in front of him. He let his head fall between his shoulders, hanging heavy. He felt awful.
He tilted his head from left to right, feeling the tense muscles in his neck straining as he opened his eyes to watch pink water swirling away down the drain. Water clouded his vision as he reached a hand up to his head, calloused fingers grazing over the place there should be a bullet hole. A bullet to the brain hurt - it had happened enough times for Jack to know with certainty that it wasn't the most painful way to go, but it was definitely one of the more painful ways to come back. That last bullet, though, hurt far more than any of the other's had.
Ianto's eyes had been void of emotion as he squeezed the trigger and Jack had been unable to do anything but stare in silent shock, because his brain was trying to comprehend the person behind the gun. Jack shook himself, droplets of water smashing against the side of the shower stall before Jack was reaching for the shampoo bottle.
When he was done Jack left the bag of his bloody clothes on the floor of his room and crawled up the ladder back into his office. The copper smell of blood assaulted him as his head broke through the floor into his office. He hesitated again as his gaze flicked towards the dry puddle of blood that had seeped halfway under his desk. He tried to ignore it as he pulled himself the rest of the way out of the hatch, going to the coffee machine to make himself a cup of coffee. It wasn't as good as Ianto's – it never was.
Those hands knew just which way to manipulate the levers, knew the feel of cold metal next to calloused fingers as they squeezed the trigger, not a fraction of remorse in the action. Jack's hand reached out to flick the radio on, the babble of Welsh invading the underground recesses of the Hub, drowning out Jack's thoughts as he collected a mop and bucket to go and clean his own blood from his office floor.
A seagull cried loudly overhead but Gracie Jones was oblivious to it as she wrapped her arms round herself. Her gaze was drawn to the horizon where a storm was breaking somewhere out in the Bristol Channel.
She felt like her life was slipping through her fingers in that moment, like grains of sand. She tried to cling onto the memory of red patent shoes, her little brother teasing her and her father reprimanding her, but they were fuzzy through the fog of what felt like a deep sleep. She felt like Sleeping Beauty, trapped in a glass coffin, looking out at the world through dead eyes and unable to interact. She was waiting for her Prince Charming to wake her with a kiss. She raised a finger to her lips, running them along the cracked skin, trying to remember the taste of alcopops and drunken snogging in the under-stairs bathroom. It was like it had happened to a different person.
Lightening flashed somewhere in the distance and she knew she was supposed to count, count between the thunder and lightening to tell how close the storm was, but the bright flash of light was like an explosion. Like a head exploding. She could hear the screaming and all those thoughts that hurt so much it felt like your head was going to explode. It hurt just to recall the memory of it – if it was a memory.
Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance and Gracie wondered why she was at the docks and how she had got here. Something tugged at the back of her mind like some long forgotten memory. The memory of wet grass and the burn of something hot, like a bonfire, on her cheeks. The clouds drew in and her memory faded with the last vestiges of light sneaking through the clouds. She shuddered in the sudden chill that rent the air before heavy fabric encased her, hands warm on her shoulders.
She turned to the man in the suit that had picked her up that morning; rescued her. He pulled his heavy winter coat further round her and kissed her lovingly on the forehead. All her troubles and fears seemed to slip away like water off a duck's back as he steered her back towards the warehouse. She tried to recall his name – something very Welsh – but it slipped away from her as if it was of little or no consequence. It wasn't really. Not when they had work to do.
"The animals went in two by two-," she sang under her breath.