Chapter 4: Hidden (And not so Hidden) Skeletons
Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828
The warm, gentle touch of a late spring sun shone brightly down on the inner courtyard at Tanner's Close. A pair of pigs-large, bristly, burly creatures-nudged each other out of the way in a violent bid to get to a small feeding trough. Chickens scampered back and forth in confusion around the pigs' mud-caked feet. Nearby, a cow stood idly chewing grass, staring docilely off into space. The scents and sounds of the barnyard-the smell of slop and fecal matter and the squeals and the constant, rhythmic clucking noises-echoed throughout the morning. And, inside the shed of the small stable house, William Hare darted, criss-crossing between the vacated hen's nests, methodically collecting eggs in a scratchy, blue kerchief.
He approached a nest that still had a hen inside it, and with a slow, practiced hand, he reached under her and pulled out two eggs. "Give up the goods, mum," he murmured to the creature, who continued to sit determinedly in her spot. He carefully added the eggs to his growing pile. Nothing was better than the taste of fresh, fried eggs in the morning.
"Guess who!" cackled a merry voice as a pair of rough hands dropped over Will's eyes.
Startled, Will dropped the kerchief-and several day's worth of breakfast-on the ground. He heard a distinct cracking sound. "For the love of God, Burke! Now look what you made me do! Madge will have my head for this!" he complained, whirling to face his sometimes business partner and lover.
"Will, Will," chided Burke. "You worry way too much." Burke reached out to grab the shorter man by the arms, maneuvering him back into the darkened space of the shed. Light slanted across them in shafts of molten gold, dappling the hay-strewn floor, slipping through the slats of the structure's uneven wooden beams like airy wood nymphs. "So, where is our darling Madge this fine morning?" asked Burke, with obvious motive, as he angled Will toward a large, hill-like haystack.
"Visiting Ann Conway across the way," Will replied, suspicion narrowing his wide eyes to darkened slits.
As expected, Burke dove in for a sloppy, whisky-tinged kiss, gripping the younger man's arms even tighter. They remained locked that way for several seconds, standing, pressed against each other in a grid of shadows. Then, abruptly, Burke broke off the kiss and stepped away. It was a move that left Will reeling and confused. Confused, because he had expected to be pushed back into the soft, welcoming cushion of the haystack. Confused, because he had expected, in his wife's absence, for Burke to try for a quick fuck on the stable floor.
It's what would have normally happened.
"I have a present for you," said Burke softly, his eyes all aglitter with mirth and liquor and undisguised want.
"A present for me?"
"Yes." said Burke, and he brushed past Will, made to kneel down next to the haystack. Will watched him as he began to paw through the hay, scraping it aside, tearing through the faded yellow mound. And then Will saw, with each subsequent removal of handfuls of hay, the sudden unexpected appearance of a shoe. And after that, an ankle. And beyond that, a leg. As clumps of hay were scooped away, more of the body was revealed. Will hissed in air. Burke clawed at the stack until the hidden corpse was almost completely uncovered. Will recognized the dead woman as her face came into view.
"Effy, the char-woman?"
"Aye, I invited her back here for a drink this morning," said Burke, sounding altogether pleased with himself.
Will began to shiver within the shadowy confines of the shed, the feeling of an intrusive, sudden chill overtaking him. A chill that even the warm, golden light of the morning could not dispel. And then, like a blanket of pure black thrown over the inner glow of their sun-dappled web, a second shadow appeared. A shuffling noise came from the doorway. Both Burke and Hare turned to stare at the open entrance of the shed. Standing there was a figure cloaked in black, the soggy blue kerchief which contained the broken eggs dangling, forgotten, from her right hand.
"So-what's all this then?" came the hard, accusing voice of Will's wife, as both Burke and Hare stood frozen like graveyard statues over the body of Effy the char-woman.
"I want my cut."
Madge sat at the kitchen table with her arms folded firmly across her chest. Her expression was stern. In the quiet, closeness of the stable-in sudden, indecipherable panic-Will had confessed everything to her. Everything. And Margaret Hare, ever the enterprising business woman, made her demands known:
"I want at least one pound per body."
Burke and Hare just stared at her across the expanse of the kitchen table. Both wore comically dumbfounded expressions. But Margaret Hare was exact, relentless. She wanted her share, and she was going to get her share. Especially as it was her lodging house that seemed to be the main base of operation. And not only that, the fact that it was a tenant building-well, that only made their opportunities for possible monetary gain even better, almost morbidly, ridiculously so. What with all the immigrant workers coming through, workers who were far away from home, who were out of contact with their families. Workers whom no one would miss if they were to suddenly vanish. Workers unfamiliar with the city or its people. Madge pointed all of this out to them with cool, dispassionate detachment. And Burke, listening, merely grunted at her assessment. Whether this was a grunt of assent or of agreement or of admiration, Will could not tell. Either way, he was unnerved by the situation. Unnerved by his wife's own frank acceptance of the arrangement.
"...And that's the way it's going to be," finished Madge sharply, scraping her chair back from the table and standing. Satisfied with her pronouncements, she headed off to her own parlor to return to her sewing. A few feet away, she paused in the doorway, and said over her shoulder:
"Oh, and in the meantime, if there should come along any...eligible persons, I shall certainly tell the both of you straight-away."
And with that final decree, Margaret Hare quietly-and calmly-disappeared into the private sanctity of her sewing chamber...
Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day
"Uh, Jack?"
"Yes, Ianto?"
"You were kidding, right? About us going to a graveyard?"
"I'm afraid not."
"But why?"
"Because...that's where the hub of Torchwood Scotland is currently located."
"In a cemetery?"
"Not in it. Below it. Specifically, underneath Covenanter's Prison. Because their old base vanished."
"Vanished?"
"You know, it fell into one of those trans-dimensional thingys."
"A trans-dimensional whassit?"
"Yeah. One of those."
"You're not making any bloody sense."
"Ah, look! We're almost there!" said Jack as he rounded the corner of Candlemaker's Row. He came to a sudden stop, and Ianto almost collided with him. Jack stood with his hands buried deep within the pockets of his military coat. "See, Greyfriar's kirkyard."
Ianto, bundled in a camel-colored wool coat and a bright tartan cashmere scarf, followed Jack's gaze. From the road, he could see the black wrought iron gates which surrounded the kirkyard, and beyond that, the majestic, curving structure of the four-hundred-year old church itself. Looming above it all, far off in the background, like some great stone sentinel, was Edinburgh Castle, just visible over the top of the graveyard's back bordering wall.
Jack darted across the road, and Ianto scurried after him, a blare of horns howling in their wake. Jack slipped casually through the open gates of the kirkyard, coat fluttering out behind him as he strolled along in that way of his that made him seem like he owned the place. Ianto was content to admire his form from a distance, was content to place the majority of his focus on him. Because if he focused on Jack, that meant he didn't have to focus on all the creepy, overturned headstones-many of which seemed to be decorated with cantering skeletons or skulls and crossbones-that dotted the kirkyard, lying about like so much fallen stone shrapnel.
It was all decidedly morbid.
The two of them rounded the structure of the church itself, a beautiful, ancient edifice whose sign announced that services were still given in old Gaelic on Sundays. Low hanging trees dotted the green of the kirkyard, providing a lovely contrast to all the old headstones: bright, lively pieces of vivid, flourishing life brushing against cold, ancient memorials of death. A late afternoon sun cut through the abundance of leaves, dappling the ground around their feet with gold coins. Ianto remained close to Jack, following the Torchwood commander to a section in the very back of the cemetery. To a second, secluded wrought-iron gate that was heavily chained and padlocked.
"Here we are," Jack announced.
Ianto stared through the locked gate. Inside was a narrow path, bookended on either side by rows of massive, standing mausoleums. Ianto felt a chill slither through him at the sight.
"We're supposed to go in there?" he asked.
"Yes. Specifically, into that mausoleum right over there-otherwise known as the Black Mausoleum," said Jack, pointing to a standing stone structure about mid-way down the row.
Ianto just stared, mouth agape. "You're...you're not serious? No-there is no way I'm going into a...into a..."
"A tomb?" finished Jack with an annoying smirk. "Oh, and did I mention that the Black Mausoleum is supposed to be haunted?"
"Jack-"
"It's the supposed residence of the MacKenzie poltergeist. Hundreds of years ago, a guy named George MacKenzie, who was a judge and a bigoted, all-around sadistic douchebag, locked several hundred covenanters in here and left them all to starve. Not a happy situation. And now it's said that his ghost haunts this place-"
"-Jack-"
"-otherwise known as Covenanter's Prison. The MacKenzie poltergeist is a somewhat malevolent creature. There were a reported five-hundred attacks just last year alone-"
"Attacks?" Ianto practically squeaked.
"-a very violent entity, the MacKenzie poltergeist. A Catholic priest tried to do an exorcism once. But he failed and died a few weeks later-"
"He died?"
"Yey, you know. Shit happens...so, hey! Shall we go in?" Jack finished and turned to smile at Ianto.
Ianto had gone as white as a marble slab. He was shaking his head like a man hooked up to an electro-shock machine. "No, no, no-not going in there."
Jack just grinned. "Oh, c'mon, Ianto. You're not afraid of one tiny little ghost, are you?" Jack was all ease and nonchalance. He moved to place an arm around the other's man's shoulders. And, leaning his lips next to his ear, Jack whispered: "Don't worry, I won't let the big, bad poltergeist eat you..."
Ianto shrugged him off. "You're a very wicked man, Jack Harkness."
"And don't you just love it! C'mon, Mr. Jones-let's visit a crypt together. At least you can't say I'm a boring date."
"You're never boring," said Ianto, who felt his tension dissipating, driven away by the bright sun that was Jack Harkness's blinding, confident personality.
"Now, if I can just get rid of this lock-" and, at the exact moment the words fell from Jack's lips, the padlock slid downward and clicked itself open.
"Oh holy Jesus," muttered Ianto, looking faint.
"Ah! Looks like we're expected. Excellent!" The iron gate shrieked in protest as Jack pushed it open. The Torchwood commander made his way down the narrow grass path, strolling along as if he were in his own back garden. Ianto hesitated. Then, steeling himself, he began to follow after Jack, tension coiling his muscles into tight, rigid knots.
"Come along, Ianto," Jack called over his shoulder. "Once we get inside the tomb, it'll all be over."
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Ianto murmured to himself.
"See! Reality projection simulator. That's all there is to it. You just go through the back wall of the mausoleum and into the elevator. And the threat, the legend of the poltergeist, keeps people away. It's brilliant, really."
Jack chatted away casually as the two of them rode an old-fashioned cage elevator down into the hub of Torchwood Scotland. Ianto still felt faint. His fear of ghosts and an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia had almost been too much for him to handle. Being inside that god-awful mausoleum had almost been too much for him to handle. It had been so dark. And so cold. And so relentlessly, unnervingly creepy...
Ianto was extremely glad to be out of there.
The elevator clanged to a noisy stop. As Jack slid back the antique metal door, a loud voice boomed out from the shadows:
"Harkness! You're finally here! I thought maybe the poltergeist had eaten you!"
They were approached by a man in his late forties wearing a black duster. He wore wire-frame glasses and his dark, graying hair looked as if it hadn't seen the right side of a brush in decades. He had at least two day's growth of beard and looked wholly unkempt. This, then, was the sole proprietor of Torchwood Scotland.
"Albert Ferguson, may I present my colleague, Ianto Jones."
"Good to meet you, sir," said Ianto politely, as Albert reached out to give his hand a near-spastic shake.
"Bless my ears," said Albert, "that sounds a lot like a London accent."
"Ianto is formerly of Torchwood London," Jack explained.
"Ha...Torchwood London!" Albert practically sneered. "Went and got themselves all blown up, didn't they? Bloody bit of good that lot did..." Albert let the comment trail off. He turned and stalked off, and Jack and Ianto had no choice but to follow him.
Jack gave Ianto a sarcastic look which clearly said: "We're off to a fine start here, aren't we?"
Ianto merely rolled his eyes in response.
"Here is the situation gentleman," boomed Ferguson, as he led them all into a small room, one wall of which was completely covered by TV monitors. Various views of Edinburgh-the gate to Covenanter's Prison, the Royal Mile, the castle, and what Ianto thought might have been one of the entrances to the underground vaults-played across the screens. Albert sat down on a swivel stool in front of a long metal table and swung to face them. "People are going down into the underground vaults. And they're not coming out."
Ianto waited. But Ferguson said nothing more than that. After a moment Jack said:
"And you've investigated the scene?"
"I tried."
"Tried?"
"Yes." Ferguson stared off into space. Then finally he said: "There is...some sort of presence down there."
"But you said you did a scan, and you picked up nothing?" interjected Ianto.
"Nothing on the scan," said Ferguson, his owl-like eyes peering into Ianto's. "But I could feel it. I could feel something. Some sort of ghostly...presence. Something evil."
Now it was Ianto's turn to sneer. Historically, the relationship between England and Scotland had never been cozy, and after that little swipe Albert had taken at Torchwood London, Ianto was feeling a little bit vindictive. "What is it with you Scotsmen and your ghost stories? You can't carry out a legitimate scientific investigation based solely on some random 'feeling'-"
"-Would you care for a drink Mr. Jones?" Ferguson asked suddenly.
"What?"
"A drink. Would you like one?" Ferguson repeated. "I myself could use a nice glass of Scotch. How about you, Captain Harkness?"
"No, I'm good, thanks."
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, a small cabinet door clinked open and a bottle of liquor-specifically, Scotch-slid across the metal counter, coming to a stop next to Albert Ferguson's hand. Then Ferguson rolled his eyes and said: "You know, for guests, I would at least like a glass." A moment passed, then a small shot glass sprang forth from the cabinet and slid across the table to rest next to the bottle of Scotch."
"Oh. My. God." said Ianto, his eyes gone wide.
"What?" asked Albert innocently. He craned around Ianto to address Jack. "You did tell him about the poltergeist, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir. In great detail."
Ianto felt faint again. He sputtered. "You mean...you mean that thing's for real?"
"Mack? Oh, yey."
"Mack?"
"Yes, Mack." said Albert. "Oh, and don't worry, Mr. Jones. Mack isn't guilty of all those attacks that people reportedly talk about." Ferguson paused and stared off.
"Well, not most of 'em, anyway..."
Ianto swallowed, his eyes darting around wildly. "I can't believe you have an actual ghost running around in here."
"And why not?" asked Albert, his tone suggesting that this was all perfectly normal. He scooted forward on his stool and asked Ianto in a low, confidential voice: "Is it true that you have a real pterodactyl flying around your hub?"
"Uhm...yes."
"And you feed it chocolate bars?"
"Uhm...yes."
Albert looked pleased. He swiveled around on his stool, took up the bottle of Scotch, uncorked it, and poured a full shot into the glass. "See-every hub has its own...mascot, for lack of a better word. Nothing wrong with that."
Ianto jumped as Jack punched him in the shoulder. The expression on his face said, clear as day: "See, I told you so."
The expression on Ianto's face said something far less polite.
"Now about this matter of the vaults," said Albert, knocking back his shot with aplomb.
"You want us to investigate it on your behalf?" asked Jack.
"You-Captain Harkness. I mean you. I'm not so sure it would be safe for your colleague here."
"Why just me?"
Albert clinked his glass down on the table and swerved around to look Jack full in the face. "There has been a Captain Harkness in the records of Torchwood for almost a hundred years-"
Jack arched an eyebrow. "There's no way for you to know that," Jack said coolly.
"Isn't there now?" said Albert, his initial haughtiness back in his voice. "Don't deign to tell me what I do or do not know, Captain. We are our own entity here, in Torchwood, Scotland. In fact, Scotland is where Torchwood began-"
"-I don't need a history lesson, Albert."
"Fine. Fair enough." replied Albert. "But it seems to me, from what I've read-from what I know-that you're something quite...special. Durable. Impervious."
Jack said nothing.
"At any rate," continued Albert, "I thought you would be the perfect man for this assignment. It's high-risk, dangerous." Albert stared Jack straight in the eye. "Think you can handle a bit of danger, Captain?"
The infamous Jack Harkness smirk was firmly back in place as he raised his head and answered:
"Wouldn't know what I'd do without it, Mr. Ferguson..."
End Chapter 4.
Author's Notes: I didn't make up the MacKenzie poltergeist, anymore than I made up Torchwood or Burke and Hare. I'm just borrowing from history, twisting it for my own amusement.
Also, with my work schedule the way it is next week, I may not be able to update then. FYI, for anyone who is interested.
Reviews?