Torchwood First Born (2 page)

The village was tiny. I guessed that if I met anyone I'd give them my best 'hello' nod. You know, the nod that city-folk use when they're in the country that says 'I mean you no harm and do not fear your easy familiarity. Please go about your business, noble rustic.'

But there was no one. There was a village shop - it was one of those good old-fashioned front rooms. Where you'd normally have a sofa there was a lot of tins, and there was a chiller cabinet where you'd expect to find the telly. The shop was almost empty - a dark-haired teenage girl stood serving a middle-aged woman with lots of grey hair and a grey cardigan.

Will that be all, Miss Eloise?' the girl asked, almost impossibly politely.

'Yeah, that'll do nicely, Jenny,' said the woman with a surprising American drawl. She shuffled past me, grunted a brief Hey there!' and was gone.

The girl Jenny looked at me. 'You are new,' she announced. T will go and get Mother.' She ducked through an orange ribbon curtain before I even had a chance to ask where the nappies were.

I was alone in the shop. There was no one behind the counter. So I stood there, humphing and harring, and then started to hunt down baby stuff. Another example of how beloved Anwen had rewritten my brain — previously my tiny head would automatically scope out the fire exits and all the ingredients for spag bol. Now it just looked for nappies and wipes.

Only there weren't any. Puzzler.

'Morning!'

The shopkeeper was a smiling woman in her early forties. She was plainly dressed - like she'd settled for floral print a few years early. She was wearing a pinny and had clearly come from the back of the house - beyond the cash register was the distant warmth of a kitchen and a burbling radio.

'Hello,' I said awkwardly. I felt like I was intruding in her home.

'Can I help you?' she prompted gently.

'Yes,' I said. 'I'm looking for nappies. Bit of a crisis.'

'No,' she said after a long pause. Which was odd.

But the way she said the word was even odder. Very firm.

'Not to worry,' I said. 'You know what babies are like.'

'Not really,' she replied, her fingernails digging away at the oil cloth covering the counter.

'Ah,' I said. We're staying at the caravan park.

Mobile home a friend gave us the keys to. For a bit.'

'I see.' Her tone was disapproving.

I decided to win her over. After all, she had the monopoly on crisps and chocolate for five miles. I turned on the full charm, learned her name (Mrs Meredith) and tried ever so hard to make the old dear smile. But smile came there none. Her lips just got tighter and tighter as my small talk petered out.

An awkward silence settled between us, and my gaze drifted down to the foam bananas. Inspiration struck. 'Got any papers?'

Mrs Meredith dug under the counter and dropped a pile of newspapers on the counter with an impressive thump. Ah, news - lovely. With no internet and half a digital telly channel, we were finding it hard keeping up with current events. It'd been a while since I'd seen a paper. I picked through them.

'Oh, "Lady Gaga link to Cancer"?'

Mrs Meredith tutted. 'Yes I know. Shocking isn't it?'

'Bloody unbelievable,' I said, a bit too crossly.

We looked at each other. I was sharply reminded of the time when a hairdresser asked me if I had any pets. 'No, no,' I'd told him. If I did, it'd probably be a dog. And just the one, though. You don't want to be one of those mad people with three cats now, do you?'

To which, inevitably, the hairdresser had replied, T have three cats myself, actually,' and got on with cutting my hair.

It was a similar, awkward feeling.

I bought a copy of the paper anyway, and grabbed a Mars bar as well. Walking back up the hill, I suddenly realised how wrong this was. I should have got two. But I hadn't. And if I had, Gwen would have said how whey protein or e-numbers or whatever would get into her milk and Kill The Baby. But I couldn't just walk back in with one bar. It would look selfish, and I didn't much fancy going back to the shop.

So I ate the chocolate bar in the rain as I walked home. I took a little wander round the village.

Scoping out my territory. A crummy pub with a peeling plastic sign advertising sport, some houses that seemed to be fifty years old, a church. Someone whizzed past me on a bike - dark hair, wrapped up against the weather, Celtic-looking. Teenager. A bit of life. I nodded, but he didn't nod back, just cycled down the road and away. Oh-kaaaayy.

I walked on a little further. No rain, really.

Another kid went past on another bike. Or was it the same kid, same bike? I tried saying hello, but again no answer. Just a dark-haired boy pedalling off down the street.

A battered jeep rattled past, driven erratically by the scatty-looking lady I'd seen in the village shop.

As she drove past, she stared at me. As though it was odd seeing a stranger around. Welcome to your new home, I thought.

I went back up the hill, vaguely aware that someone was watching me. But no one I could see.

Perhaps it was the kid on the bike. But I couldn't see him. Just a vague sense of unease, of being followed.

I passed those strange flowers again, and paused, trying to work out what their smell was. Farty dog and boiled cabbage - mixed with a strange muskiness that reminded me of the BO of a lorry driver I used to work with. A smell that you could chew.

I walked through the caravan graveyard and wrestled open the door, trying to climb in before I let out all the heat. Gwen nodded to me as she woke up from a nap. 'No nappies,' I explained. 'Looks like we're due a trip out. This place is weird.'

G w e n

I dreamed that it was raining burning cars.

One by one they fell from the night sky, almost
drifting before they bounced a bit on the tarmac.

Walking between them with surprising grace was a
handsome man in an old military uniform. He looked
like a freshly retired model, only he was carrying a
very large gun and shooting casually up into the sky.

His name was Captain Jack Harkness.

I couldn't quite see where the burning cars were
coming from, but they were raining down thick and
fast.

'Over there,' said a voice beside me. I turned. A
young man, impossibly neat and dapper, stood next
to me, straightening his already symmetrical tie. This
was Ianto Jones. It was a hot summer's night but he
was wearing a three-piece suit and holding a rocket
launcher like it was a furled-up umbrella.

Jack, Ianto, Gwen. We were Torchwood. We were
saving the world. Right now.

I looked behind me to where something very large,
angry and made of flame was throwing the cars
off the motorway bridge. As far as I could tell, the
vehicles were abandoned. I hoped they were. Most of
them landed near us but I watched as a flaming Saab
fell short and vanished into the river with a
pfssht
as
it extinguished.

Jack dodged a melting people-carrier and
sauntered up to us. 'Gwen Cooper!' he boomed. 'Glad
you made it. Did you remember the bomb?'

'Of course she remembered the bomb,' muttered
Ianto. 'Gwen never forgets.'

'Silly me.' Jack smiled like we were having fun.

Which, oddly, I guess we were. 'Right then, let's go
to work.'

I woke up as Rhys came in, letting all the warmth out while he cludged around taking his shoes off and grunting at me. He had chocolate round his chops — bet he thought that was the perfect crime.

Oh, I'd kill for some chocolate. Or a nice bit of cake.

Christmas cake with rum and marzipan. Bet I'm not allowed
any
of the ingredients of that. Or maybe they've changed their minds over the weekend — like they do. For all I know, it's probably compulsory to eat blue cheese and raw shellfish by the scoopful. I stared glumly at the paper he'd plonked down on the counter. It was just bound to contain yet more things which will INSTANTLY KILL YOUR BABY.

I'd rather not risk it, thanks.

So it looked like Rhys and I would be off to the supermarket. That much I knew. I could have let him go on his own, but I didn't dare. He'd probably have come back with a bag of chips and some magic beans.

We clambered into the car and drove away. Well, I say that. We fitted the child seat, stuffed the back full of nappies, wipes, bin bags, a change of clothes for Anwen and a couple of spare sweaters in case one of us got a hasty respray, blankets, rugs, her favourite little plastic thing... all of it fetched from the caravan. Rhys thinks I should store it all in the car, but I never quite get round to sorting it out, and I keep telling him 'Ah, it won't take a minute.'

To think we used to just dive into cars and roar off, outrunning Scary Men In Black Cars. These days we couldn't even escape a milk float without a fortnight's notice.

We drove away from Rawbone, and I had an urge to say 'Let's not go back.' There'd be a reason why we had keys to that desolate caravan. There was always a reason why Torchwood had keys. Sometimes it was to store files or things best forgotten. Sometimes it was unfinished business. Rawbone had an air about it of unfinished business. It looked so forlorn.

Three weeks later...

Rhys had planted potatoes. It was like he'd settled. I was even letting him off the leash - you know, going down the pub for an evening pint. It spared me from having him hang around the caravan all the time like a pining dog. Of course, bless him, he was so knackered, two pints and he would be plastered.

He'd made friends, though. That was nice.

Although I hoped I would never meet any of them. I love Rhys dearly, but it's like he gets his mates from a pound shop. His new friends would all be from North Wales, so god knew what they'd be called - they name their kids anything around here - Bluebell, Lorry, Tesco Clubcard.

The great thing was it gave him a little bit of freedom and me the chance to sneak a cheeky nap.

Which was nice.

It was too good to last. He had an airy, casual look to him as he put the bottles in the steriliser. 'Hey, hey!

How are the two women in my life?' he asked.

'One is asleep, the other is dead on her feet,' I said.

What you girls need is a break. A change of scenery.' A pause. A spontaneous grin. Here it bloody comes. 'I know! Let's go down the pub.'

I waved this away quickly. 'No, no, you go. Go on.'

But Rhys stood his ground. It's like you're in prison here. Come on, love, we can do this. How long is it since you've been out on a proper trip?'

I tried to answer. 'Lots, I've been out loads!'

'Not counting shopping or nipping to the garage.'

'Oh,' I mumbled.

'Or wheeling her around the caravan park in the pram.'

'Damn.' I laughed.

Rhys smiled, triumphant. 'It will be Fun. And if it isn't, I promise you can never let me hear the last of it.'

'Can I make your life hell?' I grinned.

He nodded. 'Get your coat, pet.'

Of course, Rhys hadn't quite got the new baby thing - he was still impatiently bouncing Tigger Rhys, assuming that it takes me longer to get ready than him because... well, it's what women do. But it's not like that. Not with Anwen. Everything just takes so much time.

'I'll give her a change,' he offered like it was an offer to dance on hot coals.

'Yeah, yeah.' I waved him away. 'But I'm going to feed her before we go out. I am not popping out a boob in public. Not ready for that yet.'

I caught Rhys's expression. 'Do not say anything.

Especially not about getting turned on.'

Would not dream of it,' he vowed with a smirk.

We made it out of the caravan in just under forty minutes (which was good going) and rolled the pram down into the village. I wrinkled my nose at a sudden stench. Is that Anwen?'

Rhys grinned. 'Nah, it's the stink thistles. That's what they call them.' He pointed to a patch of green by the roadside. They're all around the village. God alone knows what they'll smell like in summer.'

'Do they have summer here?'

'Probably not.'

We pottered down the road towards the solitary street lamp. 'So what's the occasion?' I asked Rhys.

He smiled. 'A welcome party. For us. It's a surprise.'

Surprise Party. Those two words fill me with alarm almost as much as Alien Invasion.

As soon as I saw the pub, I knew what it was going to be like. It was one of those places - you think that a country pub should be an ancient building, possibly thatched with a sign swinging gently in the breeze.

But this was a single-storey, red-brick rectangle with a name picked out in gold letters (T Gwyr'), and a satellite dish stapled to the flat roof. Someone had long ago decided, 'Fine, this'll do.'

Well, it was an OK pub, actually. Not exactly

'Ooh, there be strangers in these parts,' but not in any danger of being mistaken for a wine bar, either.

It was a box of people and booze. The benches were buttoned-green pleather that had been chewed over by a fair few dogs, the floor was covered in that weird crunchy black carpet you only see in pubs. The odd tuft of tinsel was still sellotaped to the artex ceiling.

Billboards were covered with creased adverts with tear-off phone numbers. Music played. I say music -

a kind of easy-listening cock rock. The Eagles doing a salute to an album of panpipes covers.

The thing that struck me as we walked in was the sound of real spoken Welsh. North Wales, the land where Welsh is a living language and not a plaything for making personal calls at work and getting great customer service off British Gas. You can be as fluent as you like in Welsh, but if you come from Cardiff, the first time you hit North Wales it's quite a shock. It's not exactly a different language, but I guess it'd be like an Ancient Roman turning up in modern Italy and discovering that Latin's had the builders in.