Almost Perfect

2. LUCKY DEBBIE’S DUTY-FREE PURSUIT OF LOVE
IANTO IS HAVING A FLASHBACK

It is last Friday night. Ianto is on a ferry. Ianto is alone at the bar. Ianto is a man. Which, at the time, isn’t surprising, really. But thinking about it now… Anyway, he’s there on the ferry, pulling out of Cardiff Bay, and there’s a little cabin with orange curtains and a stranger snoring in the top bunk, so he’s at the bar. He’s asked them to make him a coffee to keep him alert, and he’s not liking any of it. The beans were burnt, over-diluted, and it’s been sat in the coffee-maker since February. He thinks he may stop being so silly. He’s supposed to blend in, but here he is at the bar in a suit drinking coffee from a tiny cup and saucer and all around him is noise and formica and laughter and music from every nightmare wedding disco in his life.

He’s keeping an eye out. Someone here. Several someones. Someone must be a patient. Someone must be ill. Does anyone look ill? Or out of place? Who are the patients? Who are the doctors? There’s a hen night over there, dressed as nurses, but they’ve also got on devil horns, angel wings and some tinsel. Perhaps it’s all a double bluff? Ah. Cunning.

He looks over at them a bit more. They seem happy and very drunk. They’re all so young and so loud and keep yelling out for Lucky Debbie. He guesses Debbie is getting married.

‘Hello, sailor!’ says a voice at his elbow.

He looks around. She’s quite drunk but very pretty. And wearing L-Plates.

‘Hello.’ He smiles.

‘I’m Debbie,’ she says. She’s trying to attract the attention of the bored bar staff by waving a handful of notes.

‘As in Lucky Debbie?’

She smiles. ‘Yeah. And you?’

‘Ianto. Not lucky at all, really.’

She makes a boo-hoo face at him. ‘Well, we can change all that, you know. Clearly, I’m spoken for – not that that’s gonna stop me licking whipped cream off the nipples of a Chippendale tomorrow night – but lots of my friends are… well, you know… Hen Night. Come on, join us. Hey!’ This to a barman, who appears to be twelve and entirely covered in acne. ‘Four jugs of Screaming Orgasm, One Shitting Whippet, a rack of Zambucas and a pineapple juice.’

‘Pineapple juice?’ asks Ianto.

Debbie leans forward, a bit confidential. ‘There’s a reason why I’m Lucky Debbie. And a lot of it’s to do with pacing myself when I’m around those screaming whores. God, we have a laugh, but sometimes it all gets a bit much. And when you’ve picked vomit out of your hair on the bus home once, it’s kind of… a sign. You want anything?’

‘I can be tempted.’

‘Oh, then you’ll love my friend Kerry. She’s quite formidable when you first meet, but easier than a GCSE.’

‘Ah. I see. Um. Just a diet coke please.’

Debbie laughs. ‘Seriously? The booze is dead cheap on here. It’s not like flying.’

‘I know,’ says Ianto. ‘But, I’ll let you in on a thing. I’m a secret agent for an organisation that’s beyond the Government, above the UN. And I’m on a mission. So I’m not drinking, see.’

Lucky Debbie’s eyes wander away erratically, watching the barman pour skimmed milk over a jugful of ice. The sound system starts to play ‘You’re Beautiful’.

‘Awww…’ says Debbie. ‘I hate this song. But love it at the same time. You know what I mean? Like, I can’t stand hearing it, but I would love someone to sing it to me. I tried explaining this to Phil. My Phil. Lucky Phil, if you like. But he thought I was asking him to do Karaoke. Sad, really. You know what I mean?’

Ianto nods, sipping gratefully at his drink. ‘I dunno,’ he says eventually. ‘I’ve always had time for sincere music.’

Debbie tilts her head on one side. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Help us carry over these drinks and join in the party. With that suit they’ll think you’re a stripper.’

‘Why thank you,’ says Ianto.

Ianto doesn’t know it yet, but he is being watched. He’s trying to blend in, he’s trying not to arouse suspicion, but he is. He noticed that there were two people standing in the shadows of the dock as he got aboard the boat. There was something odd about them. Two men, dressed like sailors out of a perfume commercial, just standing and watching people get on the ferry, smiling blankly.

Oddly, it’s not them who are watching him.

Later, Ianto is sat at a table in the ferry bar. He’s quiet, but he’s watching the room. Around him are the girls. Including Kerry, who keeps giggling and nudging his arm, which just makes Ianto feel a bit bashful. He’s sipping his drink, and he’s watching the girls. They’re having fun. Simple, really drunken fun. It’s been ages since he’s done this. He’s feeling a bit… not left out. Just… sad.

He remembers the last time he went for an evening out. Tosh got tiddly and danced like a dervish. Owen tried not to break anything coming back from the bar with drinks. Gwen was laughing cos she’d recognised her first boyfriend from school (‘Bloody hell, he’s gone bald!’), and Jack – Jack had looked at everyone else in the room then suddenly, on a whim, turned to him and smiled the widest smile in the world. Then Tosh came staggering over, laughing out loud at the word ‘Kajagoogoo’. She tugged at his elbow, insisted he dance.

But Tosh is gone now, and there’s Kerry.

The bar staff are bringing more drinks to the table, somehow managing to keep the tray stable while the room tilts from side to side.

Ianto isn’t feeling sick, which he finds remarkable. And Kerry keeps asking if he wants to dance. He carries on observing the room. An old couple come in and take a glass of wine each to a small table. He watches them. They’re a possibility. There’s another man sitting alone – he’s wearing a terrible jumper and drinking beer from a jug, so possibly Norwegian.

The girls all start to sing along to the music. Ianto thinks, ‘I may be undercover, but no. There are some things I cannot do.’ So, after a wan smile, he leaves them to sing about their umbrella.

The cold night air really, really clears his head. He takes a walk around, heading down a flight of stairs and into a long corridor. It’s quite an old ship and there’s a lot of it that’s like his childhood – full of browns and oranges and formica. There are lots of narrow passages. It’s an old Norwegian ferry, and so there are signs scattered around in English, Norwegian (he guesses) and Welsh. Apart from the bar staff, the crew are spookily absent, so there’s no one to go up to and ask, ‘Excuse me, have you seen any alien technology?’

He passes a few doors marked ‘Staff Only’. But they’re not locked, and just lead to boring corridors without even lino. The ship is lurching alarmingly, and Ianto is finally feeling a bit sick. He can sense the sweat pricking under his clothes. He makes his way to a railing and breathes, breathes, breathes.

He’s got a night on the boat, a day in Dublin, and then a trip back. What if it’s all like this? It’s oddly like an airport departure lounge at sea. Completely anonymous, faceless, the perfect cover. Everyone’s a stranger, everyone’s nobody.

He passes a sign advertising events on the ship. It is, gloriously, an old-fashioned velveteen board onto which little gold block letters have been pinned haphazardly. It tells him that there’ll be some poker in a function room. It mentions that there’s a small private party for someone’s wedding. It welcomes a car dealership who are on a trip. And it says that the cinema, in addition to screening some films from last year, will be showing a ‘health presentation’ in an hour’s time.

‘Health presentation?’ Bingo.

Back in the bar, appearing normal, Ianto sits down next to Lucky Debbie. She’s singing merrily away, and pats him on the arm. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ she says. ‘Kerry really likes you.’ She laughs, her breath rich with alcopop. She digs him in the arm. ‘You can get a snog, cheer you up. Cure the seasick!’

‘Can I?’ Ianto says, trying to sound enthusiastic. Kerry appears to be asleep at the table, slumped face down in a cake, the tinsel from her angel wings hanging loose in the breeze.

‘Yeah – when she wakes up. Bless ’er. I’m having a great night. Are you?’

‘Yes. Yes I am, thank you.’ Actually, yes, I am. Hmm.

‘Why are you on the boat? Business trip? A lonely travelling salesman?’

Ianto shakes his head. ‘No. Like I said – I’m a secret agent.’ Lucky Debbie barks with laughter and clinks his glass. ‘You’re full of it. Bless, what are you like?’

‘Well…’ Ianto demurs. ‘I did see that there’s a seminar on health in the cinema in a bit.’

Debbie makes an exaggerated yawn. ‘Right. And any minute now we’ve got a stripper booked if Kerry’s organised it right. What’d you rather see? A film about vitamins, or an oiled stranger stirring your pint with his tackle?’

Ianto considers. ‘Well, when you put it like that, I’d better just pop along and watch my vitamin film.’

Debbie laughs and nudges him on the shoulder. ‘Stay a bit more, eh? Who knows – Kerry may come round for a bit. Just one more pineapple juice. Stay…’

Ianto checks his watch.

Ianto walks into the cinema as the ship lurches quite alarmingly. He clutches at an old flip-down chair. He manages not to spill any popcorn as he sits down. He suspects that, just slightly, he might appear drunk and harmless. Or, as his auntie used to say, ‘tiddly’. Good.

He sneaks a look around himself. There are a clutch of people in the cinema, which has thin carpets thick with chewing gum and a pervasive, cabbagey smell of popcorn. There is an old couple in a corner. They have brought notepads. There is a bored-looking girl in the second row.

A single man, very thin and quite yellow, is sat on his own, coughing slightly. A little away from him is a bald, fat, middleaged man listening to an iPod and laughing a bit too loudly.

Projected onto the screen are a series of slides advertising amenities on board, special offers at the bar, and a range of interesting snacks available. Music is playing (the theme from Van Der Valk, on pan-pipes). There is an atmosphere of comfortable anticipation. He notices the old couple keep squeezing each other’s hands and bickering quietly. They remind him of his parents – perfectly content in each other’s company, passing the days in a series of complicated little arguments and score-settlings. The old lady reaches over and adjusts her husband’s shirt collar. She looks like the kind of woman ready to pounce on grandchildren with spittle and a tissue at the slightest hint of a stain. Ianto decides he likes them. What treatment are they here for?

He decides the thin, yellow man is dying – probably of about five different things. Perhaps the oldies were just becoming forgetful, or hoping to keep rowing for a few more years. Perhaps the bored girl had just wandered in. The bald, fat man might be looking to lose weight and gain hair. Who knew?

But what about himself? Ianto tries to think of something important he could be in need of curing. Perhaps he could just claim curiosity.

Van Der Valk fades away and the slide of the Balti Buffet chunks off. There is a blue screen, a fizzing, and then, of all wonders, an old VHS tape projects into life. The picture crackles, crackles, wobbles and then slow tracking snow drifts down the screen. With an abrupt final crackle, the feature starts. For a brief instant, Ianto is in darkness and about to see Indiana Jones with his father sat on his right, a small bucket of popcorn balanced between them and an orange ice lolly melting stickily over his knuckles.

The picture goes white, and a reassuring logo of cupped hands rising up around a globe appears. Synthesised music swells out, a tune of energy and warmth that sounds just like (and yet, for copyright reasons completely unlike) the theme from Top Gear.

A smooth voice pours over shots that track across an empty hospital ward, a crowded waiting room, and then through a garden where people of all ages walk in the sun. The tone is warm, upbeat and strident.

‘Welcome to Hope. We’ve got used to living in an age of miracles. Where the cure for everything is just around the corner. But what if you can’t wait until tomorrow? Well, we’re here to tell you about how we can offer you the medicine of tomorrow today. This is not a trial. This is not a placebo. This is real hope, a real cure – the stuff of dreams. What we are offering on this boat is not legal, but it is moral. We refuse to keep back a cure that works. This is not alternative therapy, homeopathy, or moonshine – this is the real thing. We’ve worked on a genetic therapy that offers real, rapid repairs of your DNA…’

At this point the screen moves from sunsets and a hopeful woman boiling a kettle while staring wistfully out of her kitchen window to exciting computer graphics of spinning molecules and then some science stuff of cells dividing. Ianto frowns, and sneaks a glance around the cinema. He was right – someone’s come in. Standing at the back of the room are a man and a woman. Both of them startlingly good looking. They exude health, prosperity and well-being. Their arms are linked and they stand watching the screen with rapt, smiling attention. Ianto recognises the woman from the newspaper article. He immediately decides they are involved. The woman catches his glance and smiles at him. Ianto does what he always does when a beautiful woman smiles at him across a room. He blushes and looks away and feels about fourteen.

‘… Our swift, non-invasive procedure is over in minutes, has no side effects, and the difference can be felt at once. We offer this treatment here on the Hope Boat as it is illegal in Britain. Rejected by the NHS as impossible to test and too expensive, we are only too happy to offer it here, in international waters. Simply sign up after this seminar, and a visit will be made to your cabin in the morning. Then, you can relax and enjoy a day’s sightseeing on the Emerald Isle, followed by a revolutionary cure on the voyage back to Cardiff. It’s that easy. And this treatment can work on all sorts of genetic ailments – from simple male-pattern baldness all the way through to cancer. We can make you better. No,’ a warm smile in the voice, ‘we will make you better.’

The picture changes to a warmly setting sun watched by a couple on a beach. And then fades to black.

The lights come on, together with a slide advertising the wide range of gnomes available in the duty-free shop. People stand up. The old couple look at each other, and squeeze each other’s hands. The beautiful people at the back have already left.

‘Well,’ thinks Ianto, munching on his cold popcorn, ‘that was the fishiest thing in the Irish Sea.’

‘And then?’ asked Gwen.

‘I signed up, and had a lovely day sightseeing,’ said Ianto. ‘I think I took loads of photos on my phone. The weather was a bit drab, but the girls were great fun.’

‘The girls? Lucky Debbie and Easy Kerry.’ Jack’s mockery was fond and only a little bit jealous. ‘Let me guess. You went drinking?’

Ianto shook his head. ‘Actually, we went to the zoo, a nice little tea shop, and Kerry found some rare editions she’d been hunting after for ages in an antiquarian bookstore.’

It’s late afternoon in a Dublin pub with a great view of the rain. Ianto reels. Lucky Debbie grabs hold of him. ‘Easy, tiger!’ She ruffles his hair and helps him sit down. All around him, the wooden panels of the Dublin bar start to spin slowly.

Ianto shakes his head, and scowls. ‘I’m tired.’ He is much drunker than he intended to be.

Debbie grins and pinches his cheek. ‘You pass out, and Kerry will pounce. I’ve experience of that girl. Don’t give in to weakness.’

Ianto runs a hand through his hair. ‘Debbie, I’m hammered. I’m trying to do really important work here, and my head’s pounding. I have no idea what was in the meal we’ve just eaten, but three fingers of scotch aren’t helping anything. I just want a nap.’

Kerry staggers back from the ladies, giggling. There is a small trail of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe. She sits down opposite Ianto with a whumpf! and then pitches gently into an uneasy sleep on an open packet of pork scratchings.

Ianto squints a little to bring the table into focus. Spread across it are the slumbering remains of Debbie’s hen party. Through a forest of half-finished pints and abandoned pies he can see Debbie, who winks at him. ‘You’ll be fine, doll. What is this top secret mishun? You really a spy?’

Ianto shakes his head. ‘Oh no. I’m just the office boy, really. But… you know… I’m keeping an eye out. For a friend. Well, not really a friend – more a bastard, really. But he died. And it’s easy to remember someone fondly if they’re dead. Especially when they died twice, if you’re counting. Twice dead bastard.’ He giggles.

Debbie is nodding with the slightly glassy look of someone who isn’t even listening.

Ianto ventures on. ‘And Owen thought there was something wrong about the boat. And he was right – I think there’s some alien medical procedure taking place on that boat. And that’s never good. And I’m supposed to stay sober on a mission. But then I think I’m being followed. So, I decide to blend in by getting drunk with you. Which may not have been the wisest thing. So it’s Ianto Jones, secret agent, saving the Cardiff Ferry from an alien invasion, just a little bit legless. So yes, I guess in many ways it’s oh dear.’ He takes an ill-advised swig of his pint and grimaces. ‘Oh, this is going down like sick.’ He rests the glass on the table hurriedly. ‘Anyway – I’m very important. I’m saving Cardiff.’

Debbie nods again and pats his hand. ‘Phil was shagging Kerry a couple of months ago,’ she says, quietly.

Many hours later, they stagger onto the boat for the journey back. Kerry is throwing up into a bin to the disgust of customs officials. Debbie has a spring in her step and flashing plastic devil horns in her hair. Ianto is carrying a traffic cone.

He makes it back to his tiny little orange cabin and slumps down on the lower bunk, the traffic cone resting unsteadily by him. He sinks his head in his hands. ‘I am so hammered,’ he thinks sadly. ‘I’ve had a brilliant weekend, clearly. I haven’t let my hair down in ages. But I haven’t really saved the world.’

He wraps his arms round the traffic cone, and settles down for a sleep. At no point does he even notice the envelope resting on the floor.

The knock on the door wakes him. It is night and the throbbing of the engines pounds in his head. ‘Whu?’ he manages, unsteadily getting to his feet. He is praying it isn’t Debbie. Or, dear god forbid, Kerry.

Instead it is a small, dapper little man in a steward’s uniform. He has a drooping orange moustache that makes him look pleasantly like Asterix. ‘Sir,’ says the man with the perfect English of a Norwegian. ‘You are awaited in the Kielty cabin.’

‘Ah,’ says Ianto. ‘Thank you. Do you mind if I…?’ He gestures to the sink, where he splashes some cold water on his face and straightens his tie. Oh god, he feels awful. He grabs the complimentary bottle of water from the washstand and starts to drink it as they walk. His mouth tastes terrible as though… oh no. Has he been smoking? He really can’t remember. Lisa will kill him.

As they walk his brain does three bits of thinking. The first pieces of thinking it has done for almost twenty-four hours. The first thought is ‘Kielty’ – the name was mentioned in the newspaper story. Ross Kielty had apparently been a passenger, and spoke in glowing terms of the treatment. In the same article… something else familiar. The picture. He’d seen someone else in the picture. He tries to remember who. But it now seems obvious that the whole Hope Boat is an elaborate cover for something else.

The steward leads him to a door and then melts away. Ianto sadly swallows the last of the bottled water and knocks. A quite beautiful woman opens the door and smiles kindly.

‘Mr Jones?’ she says, holding out her hand. Her handshake is easy and strong. ‘Thank you for coming. My name is Christine. Do take a seat.’

He steps into the cabin – which seems to be the ferry’s equivalent of a stateroom. It is still the size of a small caravan, but feels almost palatial.

The woman, amazingly dressed and terribly calm, sits down opposite him, and smiles. She is half of the couple who had come into the cinema late. She is professionally friendly. ‘Now, briefly tell me what can we do for you?’

‘Ah,’ says Ianto. ‘Can you cure my hangover?’

Christine’s laugh is a sharp little rattle. ‘Oh, we can cure a lot more than that, Mr Jones. What was it that you came to see us about? Surely something more serious?’

Ianto sighs. ‘I don’t know. I read about the treatments offered on this boat, and I wondered… well. You see, in the last year I’ve lost my girlfriend and two friends. They all died. And everyone thinks very sad, but move on. But I can’t. I’ll be at work, and I’ll remember a conversation I had with her, or a row with Owen, just a little thing, and I’ll be stuck. I want that to stop. I know you can cure my body – but can you cure my mind? Can you make it so that I never think about any of them ever again?’

Christine reaches out a hand that brushes his lightly. Her smile is wan and melancholy. ‘Oh, Mr Jones. I’m sorry for your loss… deeply and sincerely so.’ A heavy breath, and then more warmth in the smile. ‘But you’ll be pleased to hear that we can help.’

‘Really?’ Ianto, just for an instant, thinks how nice it would be – never to think about Lisa back in his flat. To be able to water Owen’s plants without remembering him. Or dismantling Tosh’s complicated analyses of alien technology – studies that would never be finished, secrets that would never be unlocked. Just forget about them and move on.

Christine leans forward. ‘It won’t take long, and I promise it won’t hurt.’

‘Will it be now?’

She taps his wrist again. ‘So eager! But no – we prefer to have a pre-treatment meeting. Just to screen people, to make sure they’re really happy to take part and that they understand everything. And, also, there is the small matter of payment up front.’ Her smile assures him that, if it were up to her, there wouldn’t be such a thing as payment.

‘Oh, of course!’ Ianto has the bank details of a Torchwood holding account. He passes them over, and she hands him a little slip of paper, discreetly folded in half. He lifts it up, and looks at the amount.

For a second he forgets how tired and drunk he is and instead stares aghast at the figure on the slip of paper. These people could clearly charge anything they wanted. He guesses running a ferry as a disguise can’t come cheap. But still – this is…

He manages a rueful smile. ‘It’ll be worth it in the long run.’

‘Of course,’ Christine lays a reassuring hand around his shoulder. ‘Once these bank details have cleared, we’ll contact you later tonight with a slot for treatment. It should only take a quarter of an hour. Shouldn’t hold up your fun with the hen party!’ She nudges his arm and laughs warmly. Ianto returns her smile weakly. She’s just confirmed that he’s been watched closely ever since he got on the ship.

‘What do you use?’ he asks, suddenly.

Christine doesn’t even look startled. Her voice has an easy, practised flow to it.

‘There are various advanced gene therapies that have been developed which, for one reason or another, just aren’t ever going to be practical for conventional medical care to offer. Too expensive for the NHS, impossible to obtain through other channels. My husband and I have found a way of making these therapies available easily. We use a method of delivery that’s tailored to each subject. Our primary concerns are your health and well-being. We wouldn’t proceed if there was any risk to you, or any chance of the procedure failing. You are in safe hands.’

‘Well,’ thinks Ianto. ‘That was all guff. Deliberately reassuring flannel.’

He makes a face. ‘But are there any injections? I’ve always hated those.’

Christine nods. ‘Oh, me too! But rest assured – this is far less invasive and far more effective. We don’t even need to give you an anaesthetic. Less fuss than a filling. Can you believe it?’

Right, thought Ianto. That does it – they’ve definitely nicked something alien. Miracle alien cures are never good.

He tries to leave her cabin without looking furtive and strides down the corridor, fingering his phone. No signal. He waits round the corner and then, when all is quiet, slips past Christine’s cabin to the one next door, and listens quietly at the door. He can hear a man’s soothing tones and a woman crying quietly. He stands back in the shadows and waits.

Eventually the door opens, and the very handsome man who’d been with Christine stands on the threshold, ushering two figures out. It is the old couple he’d noticed earlier. They are clasping each other and smiling. The old woman has tears running down her smiling cheeks.

‘Now, you’ve nothing to worry about – just go and have a nice little lie-down, and by the time we pull in to harbour, you should notice some dramatic improvements. Just relax and feel the Parkinson’s melt away. No, don’t thank me any more – just settle back and enjoy the next few years together.’

The woman turns and grips Ross Kielty in a fierce embrace. She starts to cry again. Her husband gently takes her shoulders and leads her away. Ianto can hear them laughing as they walk off.

Ross stands on the threshold, smiling. He is holding something small and blue in his hands. And then turns back into the room and closes the door.

Curing Parkinson’s? Oh dear.

Ianto is nervous on the deck. There’s a chill in the air and he’s not sure if he’s been followed. But there is definitely something up. He walks towards the bar and can see people spilling out of it onto the deck. He can still hear little gusts of music from the bar as people push through the doors. Everyone is standing, looking out to sea, or pointing vaguely with their camera phones.

He glances out, trying to see what they can see – and all he notices is the distant, distant glow of Cardiff, and then higher up, a dancing spot of light, like a shooting star, but one that slices across the sky towards them, only to vanish momentarily before sparkling up again.

‘It’s the Northern Lights!’ he hears someone shout, only to hear them laughed down. Gradually, with muttering, gasping, camera snapping and moaning they realise that the boat is surrounded by a perfect circle of fog, a fog that blots out Cardiff and the stars, just leaving a little twinkling globe that flickers closer and closer. There is nervous excitement, a definite feeling of anticipation. Ianto has no idea what the light is – he just knows it is linked to whatever is in the cabin, and the mysterious figures he saw in the Bay before he left. This is it. He reaches for his phone. Still no signal. And then, with a sputter, no battery.

He looks out across the deck, as the little twinkling fireflies of camera phones snuff out one by one.

Oh god. No witnesses.

The light comes closer and closer.

At first like fireworks – a bright ball of light arcs twice over the boat. Then Lucky Debbie runs up and grabs Ianto’s hand. ‘It’s still! The sea!’ she hisses. All around them, the waves settle flat, bowing down like lions before the light.

Then comes the sound – a roar of an ancient horn, like the loudest, most exciting, most frightening thing Ianto has ever heard.

For a second, it is dark. Very, very dark. And utterly silent.

And then the light comes back, a giant ball that sweeps over the boat, and then, with the sounding again of that awful horn, it splits into two, two balls of fire that circle round and round the deck.

Then the horn sounds a third time. It doesn’t die away, but is followed by a deep boom – the shattering thud of something tearing deep underneath the water. There are screams from all around, but Ianto barely hears them. ‘Oh god,’ he thinks, realising how alone they are. In the distance, he can’t even see Cardiff any more. Just this fog bank. Blocking them off from the world.

Something bad is going to happen – he knows it, feeling as afraid as he felt when in trouble at school, when he went on a date knowing he was going to be dumped, or when he’d gone back into Torchwood to find Lisa. Something terrible is going to happen and there is nothing he can do to stop it. No weapons, no technology, no Toshiko, no Captain Jack. Just Ianto Jones against this.

The balls of light arc over again, and with a scream of tin, sheets of steel rip up from the deck and flutter into the sea.

The shouts from the bar are louder now, all the more so for the completely still sea. The siren wail of the horn finally fades like a wounded beast and the balls of light glow and descend, floating along the deck until they are just above the surface. Dancing inside each sphere is… a shape. And he can hear laughter.

The spheres contract, melt, each shape flowing into a human form carved out of sun. The two figures stride forward, their feet just failing to touch the ground. One turns to the other. It speaks, a voice thundering and echoing like continents slapping together.

‘We are here for one thing. And those who have it know what that is.’

‘Give it up!’ bellows the other. ‘Bring it out now.’

‘Please,’ the other sighs, like an avalanche.

The other stretches out a hand, and light boils across the deck, wrapping around the mast, and then whipping across the lifeboats, shattering each one in a cloud of burning splinters. People start to scream. One of the figures turns, a hand forming a gentle sssshing motion against its glowing face. The first steps forward, past Ianto. Ianto feels a warmth like a furnace flicker across his cheek. ‘You have two minutes.’

A pause. Then the other figure turns and steps almost shiftily towards the passengers who bunch up against the advancing heat. It speaks, its voice lower, more discreet.

‘Anyone got a fag?’

What? Ianto is moved and not surprised when Lucky Debbie steps forward, fumbling in her handbag for a Superking. The figure reaches out a hand and takes it, leaning over her. ‘Thanks,’ it says, its voice dropping to almost a whisper.

Somehow it holds the cigarette in its glowing fingers, and then lets the end spark into life by itself. It pauses, leaning closer, conspiratorially. ‘This had better not be menthol.’

‘No,’ says Debbie, very quietly and firmly.

The figure takes a drag. ‘Lovely. Thank you. You’ll be the last to die.’

Debbie nods, but her face is set into the Swansea-girl look which says, ‘You’re not all that.’

The figure strides above the deck, gently smoking away, while the other rises up, expanding and pulsing dangerously.

‘They’ve not come out.’

‘No, I know that.’ There’s a petulant note. Almost disappointed. ‘I’d expected better of them.’ A long sigh that rolls out across the sea. ‘Fine.’ Both fists burst into giant balls of flame that lash out, smashing into the bar, scattering tables and glasses and people. There are screams and cries and the smell of burning nylon carpet.

‘Do you hear us, Christine and Ross?’ boom both of the figures together, their voices louder than a storm. ‘We’re getting violent. People are going to die soon. You’d better not be hiding, cos we’re going to put on a bloody great show.’

‘You selfish pricks,’ snaps the smoking figure, bitterly.

The shapes come down, floating in front of Ianto and Debbie. Ianto can feel the hiss of the air starting to boil, can see those fists split and crack out into flaming, angry spheres. He feels Debbie tense up next to him – brave up to the end. Not so Lucky Debbie, he thought sadly. Then, swallowing, he opens his mouth.

‘I…’ His voice vanishes.

One of the figures flashes up next to him, fire scorching Ianto’s face. As it stares into him with eyes of coal, he feels his flesh begin to smoulder and burn. He cries out slightly.

‘Yes?’

‘I…’ He finds his voice, and is saddened to hear it is a yelp. ‘I know who you’re looking for. I can take you to them.’

The scorching heat retreats. Ianto opens his eyes. He sees Debbie give him a look – a look that mixes hope and relief with… betrayal? He shrugs.

‘Go on, then!’ The figure shrinks to almost human size, and lays a hand on Ianto’s shoulder. It jerks its neck at its companion. ‘Come on, you.’

And Ianto heads down into the hold. Around him, he can hear the plates of the ship ticking and pinging like an old clock, and see them bulging in and out, as though somehow confining these creatures in a small space. Their presence is too big.

‘Am I doing the right thing?’ he thinks, stepping carefully down the corridor. On the one hand, probably not. Probably there is no right thing to do at this point. Whatever, he has the feeling people are going to die. It is just a question of how many, and why. It is the kind of awkward thing he usually leaves up to Jack. After all, if you don’t really sleep, you can’t have nightmares about your mistakes now, can you?

Ianto feels his face smarting and burning. He knows he’ll need treatment for the wound. But he doesn’t dare draw attention to it. He keeps silent, marching ahead of the two balls of energy, feeling them snap and hiss with energy like steaks on a fire.

In the distance there is a loud, dull explosion, and the ship suddenly tilts. Ianto grabs a rail before he falls back onto the creatures.

‘What was that?’ snaps one.

‘God knows,’ says the other with a laugh. ‘Hardly know my own strength. I think this boat’s buggered, though.’

Ianto feels a shove in his shoulders. ‘Then come on. Get a move on.’

The cabin is empty, as he expects. He turns around to give an explanation, and a flaming hand slaps across his face, knocking him into the wall. He looks up to see one of the glowing figures standing over him, spitting flames.

‘They were here!’ he protests. ‘I think your arrival might have tipped them off.’

One of the figures turns to the other, and whispered, ‘See? I said – softly, softly. But no – all hallelujah and fireballs. Brilliant.’

The other hisses back. ‘And? It just means we’ll have to take this boat apart until we find them.’ The light around him flares, and Ianto feels the air in the room become suddenly stifling. Sweating, he runs a finger around his collar.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘There’s somewhere else.’

At first, the cinema seems empty. The only lights are little twinkling halogen landing strips along the floor. As soon as the figures step in behind Ianto, the room is lit with a crackling firelight.

It makes the room look even eerier as the shadows of the chairs dance up and down across each other. The dead acoustics of the cinema wrap themselves around Ianto. All he can hear is the sound of the two walking bonfires behind him.

One of them speaks softly. ‘Ross? Christine? Are you here?’

There is no answer.

It speaks again. ‘Come on. You’re right to be scared. We are furious. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be reasoned with.’

The other figure snorts derisively.

‘You know we want it back. You know that it’s not yours. You know that you can’t control it. We can, and we’ll look after it. The device is not a toy. People are going to start dying, and it’ll be all your fault. Just give it back to us.’

The other figure joins in, its voice harsh. ‘You know what we are. You’ve known us for ages. We’ve found you. You can try and run – but we’ll only find you again. And maybe, just maybe, if you give up this time, no one will die. Come on out.’

There is a pause. Ianto suddenly senses someone near him breathing out.

With a flick of a seat, Christine stands up in the darkness, cradling something close to her chest. She looks terrified.

‘Oh god,’ she says.

Ianto steps towards her, but she motions him away, and walks haltingly towards the two balls of light. They flow towards her. She gestures out with no, not a gun, but the pebble thing Ianto had glimpsed earlier.

One of the figures laughs. ‘Oh, it’s not a weapon, Christine. It’s told you that several times in the last minute, I expect. You can’t make it do anything it doesn’t want to do. Just give it to us, please. We can’t take it from you. You know that.’

‘I just want…’ she begins, and then looks at Ianto. ‘I’m so scared.’

‘You have every right to be, Christine,’ says the figure on the right. ‘Just give us it back, though, and it’ll all be OK. Won’t it?’ It turns to the other figure who doesn’t speak, but nods slightly. ‘See?’

They both glide closer, the flickering light casting dancing shadows across her frightened face.

‘I don’t want to,’ says Christine, firmly, holding out an arm to ward them off.

A glowing hand shoots out, grabbing Christine’s. It starts to burn instantly and she screams, but the hand doesn’t move.

‘See Christine?’ The figure’s voice is soothing. ‘Can you remember when you were first burned? Was it when you were a child? And your mother ran your hand under the cold tap? What felt worse? The hot…’ Suddenly the flames burn blue. ‘Or the cold?’

Christine whimpers.

‘Help me!’ she cries to Ianto again. But Ianto can’t move, can’t really think.

‘Where’s Ross?’ asks the creature. ‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ she hisses. She shakes her head, her teeth clenched. ‘I lost him. I think he’s run away. I would tell you – oh god. I’d tell you.’ She starts to cry.

‘He always did panic,’ sighs the fireball. ‘You married a coward, Christine. He’s left you all alone. He’s left you to burn.’

She shakes her head again. Ianto can smell the room. It’s hot and reeks of paraffin and scalded nylon and cooking meat and burning hair.

‘You’re all alone.’ Christine’s hand is released. As Ianto watches, she staggers back, holding up her hand, suddenly healed. He blinks. He can still smell roasting pork.

And then her hand is grasped again. She screams out.

‘We can carry this on. Like an old Greek torture – those broken heroes who spend eternity growing new eyes only to have vultures pluck them out again. We can do that – here in this little … hey, it is a cinema, isn’t it?’

Christine nods, gasping.

‘Nice. Anyway – we can keep going for hours. The burning, the healing. But you have to give it back to us. You must surrender it. And then it’ll stop.’

‘I can’t give it up. I can’t. Take it from me! Please.’

A sad shake of a burning head. ‘We can’t. You know we can’t. If it doesn’t want to go, you either have to give it up, or we take it from your body once the spirit has left it.’

Christine starts to sob uncontrollably, but the burning continues.

Ianto looks around, desperately. By trying really hard, he just moves his left foot, slightly.

‘We know what will happen. The fire will tear your body apart, as fast as the device can cure you. It’s frantically trying to remember how you look, even now. It’s desperate to keep you perfect – but how long can it keep pumping out that perfect genetic pattern?’

The figure steps closer, its hand sliding further up her arm. Christine lets out a long wail, and starts to sink to the floor.

‘Make it stop, Christine, please,’ says the figure as smoke curls up from her shirt. ‘This isn’t how we operate. But you’ve stolen from us… and this is nothing to the harm you’ve caused already. Please.’

‘No!’ she screams. And she carries on screaming. And, as she turns towards Ianto, suddenly her hair catches fire. And oh god then-

He catches something. It’s been thrown at him.

What the what the what the? says a voice in his head. Jack’s voice?

And suddenly Ianto feels very strange.

And Ianto is running, and all around him he can sense the boat being torn apart. The shrieking of metal, the dull snapping of wood, and an alarming lurching sensation.

He is running through the car bay, rolling over and over as cars and lorries tip and spin, churning in the water like socks in a washing machine. He sees a Smart car hurled through the air, burning as it crashes against the concrete wall. Petrol pours out from it, igniting and sputtering against the water, racing towards him. He rolls down, his face smacking against the wet concrete. He catches a brief glimpse of a burning figure striding towards him, and then he is off again, running up tiny metal stairs, feeling the sting of the sea air on his face.

The boat is tumbling from side to side. He sees Lucky Debbie standing there on the deck. She is looking at him. Somehow magnificent in her nurse’s uniform and L-plate and devil’s horns. Trying to work out whether or not to jump into the sea. Around her cables snap in the air like whips. And then she is gone.

He knows he has to get off the boat. He knows what he has to do. And he is suddenly scrambling over the railings. He hears shouts behind him. And he jumps.

A second in the air. All cold. He looks down and the sea rushes up like a sheet of glass. And then a sharp feeling as he slices through it.

And now…

It was dark in the Boardroom. Jack and Gwen sat, looking at Ianto. He held his hand up, marvelling that it was a woman’s hand. Gwen smiled at him fondly, and gave him a squeeze. Jack just looked at him, wearing that calmly interested expression.

‘So,’ said Ianto. ‘That was all a bit of a rush, wasn’t it? That’s all I can remember. Oh, apart from getting stuck on a very long coach journey when I was a student.’ He pouted slightly. ‘And you’re sure it’s true?’

Gwen nodded, sadly. ‘The ferry was damaged. There were quite a few survivors, but all of them were in shock. I’ve spent days talking to them, but it just didn’t seem very Torchwood. No one’s said anything about this. No one mentioned weird medicine, strange devices or talking flame. They just said the boat hit something and started to sink. Not even that much, really. They all just seemed shocked and lucky to be alive. Seems like someone altered their memories for us, which is curious.’ Gwen clicked her mouse, and the passenger list swam across the wall. ‘But not the passenger list. And Ross and Christine Kielty are listed as passengers.’ She pulled up a couple of pictures.

‘Hey, Christine,’ said Jack.

Ianto looked at the picture, and nodded. ‘That’s me. That’s her. She died. Burning like a candle. And whatever she gave me…’ Ianto shook his head. ‘I must have lost it in the water. I don’t remember how I got back to my flat. I just don’t.’

He sat, staring at his reflection in the expensive polished wood. Even now it just seemed wrong.

Gwen was positive, encouraging. ‘Well, it was the device that changed you. Maybe her husband’s got something that can change you back. If he made it off that boat. If he’s alive.’

Ianto looked at the picture of Ross Kielty. Really looked at it. ‘He is. I saw him. The other night. He was on St Mary Street. He was shocked to see me.’

‘Finally!’ Jack grinned. ‘We’re finally getting somewhere. This is what we do. A bit of CCTV, a bit of digging – and we’ll find out where Mr Kielty’s gone to ground.’

‘But Jack,’ said Ianto, ‘why did I hear your voice on the boat? And what about those fireballs? Where do they fit in?’

‘Oh, we’ll deal with them,’ said Jack. ‘Great balls of fire? It’s what I live for.’