Almost Perfect

PATRICK MATTHEWS IS NOT DEAD

Gwen scurried back into Torchwood. She’d nipped out for a sandwich and got soaked. She’d needed a break from combing through interviews with ferry passengers and CCTV from the bar. She’d been hoping to come back refreshed. Instead her teeth were chattering.

And there was Ianto. Sat at a desk, looking annoyingly perfect, not a hair out of place.

‘You bloody cow,’ laughed Gwen, dumping her bag on the desk. ‘How do you do it? You look… You’re not even wearing make-up.’

Ianto shrugged. ‘It’s getting weird, isn’t it? It’s like this body can only be pretty.’ He pointed to the hair. ‘And the hair! It just naturally… bounces into place. I’ve not even moisturised. This’ll take some getting used to.’

‘Hey, ladies!’ Jack bounded into the office, laying a fond hand on Ianto’s shoulder. I bet they’re at it like rabbits, thought Gwen. Jack picked up a leaflet on caravanning in the Gower and then favoured them with a wide grin. ‘Ianto Jones – looking amazing. Gwen Cooper – looking damp. Keep it up troops!’ They followed him through into Owen’s old medical area, where what remains they’d salvaged lay in an untidy heap on a slab.

‘I have news about our corpse,’ said Ianto. ‘His wallet says he’s Patrick Matthews. He checks up as living in Adamstown. He’s 25. And he’s still alive.’

‘Really?’ Jack looked pleased.

Ianto nodded. ‘I went over to his flat. He answered the door. Oddly, I didn’t have to think of a cover story. He seemed perfectly happy to chat.’ With those knockers, I bet he bloody did, thought Gwen. ‘Nice bloke, really,’ Ianto went on. ‘Works in Chippie Alley, moved from Neath. Got a nice car. Very friendly. Even gave me his mobile number – but told me it wasn’t working. He was off to get a new one, which was why I’d caught him in. Not at all dead in any way.’

‘Ah.’ Jack held up the corpse’s phone. ‘I have a theory. Two copies of the same mobile can’t function on the same network. You’d need a degree in temporal engineering and a soldering iron to get around it. Dusty the Corpse is from the future.’

Ianto coughed, gently. ‘And there’s more. I rang the restaurant. Patrick Matthews has booked a table for Saturday.’

Jack wore an expression which on any other man would have been embarrassed. ‘Tricky. Tricky.’ He spread his hands out in a really big shrug. ‘We used to hate stuff like this at the Time Agency. We’d have seminars. Really boring seminars. And don’t even get me started on the flowcharts.’

‘Jack!’ Gwen didn’t quite shout. ‘What do we do? Can we stop this?’

Jack’s look turned shifty. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps he does die. Perhaps not. That’s the problem. He dies in the future, his corpse turns up here. But if we prevent him from dying – what happens? It’s a massive ticking paradox inches away from a colossal space-time rift.’

‘Are you saying we do nothing?’

‘Not… nothing. I’m just saying that we might not be able to do anything. There’s two ways of looking at it. And one of them argues that we can spend the rest of the week trying to save Patrick Matthews – and somehow, he’ll still die. Do we really want to spend the next week in one of those films about doomed teenagers who die with hilarious consequences? Kind of hoped we were classier than that.’

Gwen thought about it. Rhys liked Final Destination way more than she did. That was a fact. Her left shoe was more wet than her right one. That was also a fact. You couldn’t even go out for a meal in Cardiff these days without causing a space-time paradox. Third fact. Hmm. She glanced at her watch. Not even 7pm. This was turning into another long day.

‘Right.’ Ianto’s voice was soft and echoed across the Hub. ‘We’ve got a week to work out who’s going to kill him. Failing that, we just turn up on the night.’

Jack started to open his mouth to argue, but Ianto carried on speaking. ‘It’s the least we can do. Maybe it’s fated that he’ll die. But maybe we can find the killer. What does it say about that on your flowcharts?’

Jack spread out his hands helplessly, and for a second looked like a farmboy with a missing cow. ‘To be honest, we never got to the end of the flowcharts. They were really big, the print was very small, and most of us were bombed by that point. See what you can find out about him, I guess.’

Later Jack sauntered over to Gwen’s desk. They’d spent the last few minutes pretty much not making eye contact. ‘So,’ he said, ‘are we going to have a row about this?’

‘I dunno, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a million things on, I’m soaking wet, and I just want to get home, shower and put some warm, dry clothes on.’ She managed a weak smile. ‘But doing nothing feels… wrong. I want to try.’

‘Really?’ Jack was looking directly at her, nearly smiling. ‘Potential paradoxes are really, really bad. You behave nicely around them, and the universe doesn’t end. Trust me – I’ve spent chunks of the last century not bumping into myself. You get a knack for how to behave around paradoxes. Approach them like male models – very carefully and only from behind. If we can save him, then we will. But I can’t have you following your heart on this one. It’ll go horribly, horribly wrong. I need to rely on you to do the right thing.’ His smile suddenly flickered on. He sipped his coffee. ‘Is it me, or has Ianto’s coffee got better since he’s a woman?’

And, with that little misdirection, he was gone, bounding back to his desk.

That was bloody useless, thought Gwen, miserably. A few reassuring words, a bit of sexy banter, a lot of que sera sera. She looked back at the photo of Patrick Matthews floating across her screen. According to his Facebook status, he was booking a holiday. Bloody hell, thought Gwen.