Slow Decay

TWELVE

The Outpatients department of Cardiff Royal Infirmary was full of people. They sat there, arms folded, looking like they wished they had brought something to read with them. Magazines were scattered around, but they were all months out of date. Half of them were car magazines, the other half dishing the dirt on celebrity lifestyles. People would pick them up, glance at a page or two, then put them down again with a sigh.

Gwen wished she’d thought to bring her John Updike book with her. It was sitting beside the bed, cracked open to the page where she’d finished a chapter. She’d been trying to get back to it for a couple of months now — long enough that she couldn’t quite remember how it had started or who some of the characters were — but life and Torchwood kept getting in the way. She could have scooped it up as she and Rhys left the flat, but she had bigger things on her mind. Like the trail of blood that Rhys was leaving behind him all the way to the car.

Rhys was reading a Dean Koontz novel. He’d read all of Dean Koontz’s novels, and still kept them in the flat, even though he wasn’t likely to read them again. Gwen had tried to read one, once, just to please Rhys, but she couldn’t get past the first paragraph. At the time she’d thought the horror-based plots in which innocent people were menaced by dark forces beyond their comprehension too outlandish for words.

Now she thought them too tame. Funny thing, life.

She’d texted Jack with an update on the situation, and she hoped that they’d be out scouring Cardiff for Lucy. Looking around, she couldn’t help but notice that most of the people in Outpatients didn’t look as if they were injured. Rhys was definitely the person there with the most blood on him. A few were sneezing, and one woman had a rash of small red spots across her arms and face. There was one guy with his arm in a makeshift sling, and another with a bloody cut above his eye. No small children with their heads stuck in saucepans, which was a shame. Considering it was such a cliché, Gwen didn’t think she’d ever seen it. Carry On films had a lot to answer for.

No drunks, either. It was still too early in the evening for that. Come midnight and the place would reek of beer and sweat. People would be slumped against walls and lying on the stained carpet tiles.

Beside her, Rhys was leaning back in his seat, eyes closed, tea towel still held to his cheek. It was maroon all over now, and sopping wet with the condensation from the pack of frozen peas.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked for the hundredth time. She wished she could think of something more original, something sensitive and caring, but that was all that came to mind.

‘Like a bit of an idiot, actually,’ Rhys replied. His eyes were still closed. ‘I’m going to have to make up some kind of story for work. I can’t possibly admit that Lucy bit me. The jokes will never end.’

‘You can’t say that I bit you either. Nobody gives a love bite that big. And not on the cheek.’

He frowned. ‘I read somewhere that there are more bacteria in the mouth than anywhere else in the human body. Is that true? Could I get infected just by being bitten?’

‘If we ever get to see a doctor, we can ask him. But seriously, I think they’ll give you an antibiotic shot. When I used to have to break-up fights and stuff in the police, there’d be lots of guys whose teeth had cut the inside of their cheeks when they’d been punched. The paramedics would always give them antibiotics in case the bacteria inside their mouths got into the wounds and started up an infection.’

‘Not friendly bacteria, then,’ Rhys said.

‘I don’t think there’s any such thing as friendly bacteria. Some of them might be relatively indifferent, but I don’t think they could reasonably be described as friendly.’

Like alien life forms that end up on Earth, she thought bitterly. Despite the best hopes of mankind, the universe seemed to her to be a pretty unpleasant place.

‘Rhys Williams?’ The nurse standing by the desk was looking around.

Rhys’s hand shot up. ‘Here.’

‘This way, please.’

Gwen went with him to a small, curtained alcove where Rhys sat on a bed while a doctor examined him. She was younger than both Rhys and Gwen, and looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.

‘How did this happen, then?’ she asked as Rhys pulled the tea towel away from his face. She looked over at Gwen. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘Rugby practice,’ Rhys said firmly.

Gwen raised her eyebrows at the doctor, expecting her to take a look at Rhys’s flabby physique and say something sarcastic, but she just looked him up and down and nodded. Surprised, Gwen glanced over at Rhys’s stomach. It might have been her imagination, but it was looking flatter than she remembered. Maybe it was just the way the material of his T-shirt was plastered against the skin by the drying blood, but she could almost see some muscle definition. Was he going to a gym or something?

‘I thought you rugby players wore gum shields,’ the doctor said as she cleaned the wound with a pad of cotton wool. She kept dabbing the cotton wool in a kidney dish filled with something antiseptic. Thin strings of bloody liquid began to swirl around in the dish, forming shapes that came together and apart.

‘They fall out.’ Rhys winced as she patted the wound. The tooth-marks were livid against white skin now. ‘By the time the training ends the ground is littered with gum shields. We have to send a boy out to collect them up at the end of the session. We pay him ten pence a set.’

‘Right. I’m going to give you an anti-tetanus shot,’ the doctor said, as if she hadn’t been listening. ‘And then put a dressing on the wound. I’ll also prescribe a course of antibiotics, just in case. It’s a pretty clean wound, and it should heal within a couple of weeks.’

‘What about stitches?’ Rhys asked.

‘Not necessary. Go see your doctor in a week, just to check that everything’s OK. If there’s any swelling, or if the area gets tender to the touch, go and see them sooner.’

When they got outside, it was dark. A handful of people were hanging around near where the ambulances stopped. Rhys and Gwen paused for a moment, letting the fresh air wipe the tang of the antiseptic from their nostrils.

‘I’d suggest going and getting a meal somewhere,’ Rhys said. He indicated his bloody T-shirt. ‘But they’d probably throw me straight out again.’

‘We could get a takeaway,’ Gwen said.

Rhys shook his head. He looked away, awkwardly. ‘I don’t really want to go back to the flat. Not now. Not straight away.’

‘There’s got to be somewhere still open where I can get you a shirt.’ Gwen thought for a moment. ‘Department stores will be closed. Asda will still be open.’

‘Asda.’ Rhys winced. ‘Hardly my style.’

‘Hey, you want dinner or not?’

He shrugged. ‘All right. But you’re going to have to go in and buy the stuff. I’ll loiter outside, scaring small children.’

‘OK. Extra-large?’

‘Actually…’ He paused. ‘I think just Large will do.’

‘Rhys, this is the kind of thing you should be saying to me but never do, but, are you losing weight?’

He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘A little.’

‘How?’

‘Cutting out carbohydrates. Cutting down on the drinking. More walking.’

‘Rugby practice, obviously.’

‘Did you like that? I thought it was quite inventive.’ A pause. ‘And Lucy recommended some tablets she’d been taking,’ he said, offhandedly. ‘They worked on her.’

‘Yes, we should obviously let Lucy be our role model on things involving food.’

‘Ouch. Point taken.’ He shook his head. ‘This still feels like a dream to me. It’s all moving too fast. I can’t take it in.’

‘Part of that’s the shock. It’ll pass. Tell you what — let’s get a hotel room for tonight. A treat for the both of us. We can go back to the flat tomorrow. It’s Sunday, so that still gives us a day to recover before you go back to work — assuming you’re fit.’

‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.’

It would also, Gwen thought, give the rest of the Torchwood team time to investigate. There might be some clues back at the flat they needed to look for, something that might say where Lucy had gone. And, of course, the last thing she wanted was for her and Rhys to go back to the flat, fall asleep, and then wake up with Lucy bending over them, madness in her eyes, poised to rip their throats out.

Threesomes like that really didn’t interest Gwen.

‘What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?’

Owen laughed. The flagstones were cold beneath his crossed legs, and his vertebrae were grinding against the armoured glass behind him, yet he felt strangely comfortable. ‘I sometimes ask myself the same question. I thought I’d be well on my way to being a surgeon by now.’

Marianne was sitting with her back against the glass in her cell, mirror image to his position. Their heads were separated by just a few inches of space. He could almost feel the heat from her body through the glass. Almost.

‘Was that the big life plan?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, I thought so. Seven years of training and I still had it in my sights. Spent a year as a junior houseman at Cardiff Royal Infirmary. Then I blinked, and when I looked again it was gone.’

‘And you ended up here.’

‘Yeah.’ He looked around, at the crumbling bricks and the lichen. At the rusted metal and the trickling water. ‘I ended up here.’

‘So you were at the Infirmary, but you’re not Welsh, are you?’

He laughed. ‘You can tell?’

‘The accent.’

He paused. Thinking. ‘Yeah, I’m from the East End. Plaistow. Terraced houses and council estates and old pubs. You could hear the Hammers playing at home from the back bedroom. Big cheer whenever they scored. Big groan when the goal went against them. I used to lie there and listen, Saturday afternoons. Used to make up my own commentary, as well.’

‘So why did you go to medical school?’

Good question, and one he tried not to think about too often. ‘Most of my friends ended up as car mechanics or estate agents. I could see all that ahead of me, and I couldn’t face it. I wanted to do something that meant something. And then…’

‘Go on,’ she said softly.

‘And then my dad died. Just upped and died. We found him in the bedroom one morning, slumped against the wall. He was wearing his shirt and his boxers and he had one sock off and one still in his hand. He looked… he looked like someone had said something to him that he couldn’t quite hear, and he was trying to work out what it was. One of the arteries in his chest had just given way. Aortic aneurysm, it’s called. I’ve done all the lectures, and I’ve seen photos in textbooks, and I’ve conducted autopsies of people who’ve died that way, but for me an aortic aneurysm will always be my dad, sitting there, one bare foot, and frowning.’

His face was wet. Tears were slipping from his eyes and spreading out across his cheeks leaving coldness behind. He hadn’t even realised he was crying. The grief was something separate from him that his body could get on with while he was talking.

‘I’m sorry,’ Marianne said.

‘And that’s why I became a doctor.’

‘So you could save people like your father?’

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘So I could stop the same thing happening to me.’

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then: ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Tell me about Tapanuli fever.’

‘About what?’

‘Tapanuli fever. This thing I’ve got.’

For a moment the flagstones seemed to tilt under Owen’s backside. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Then he remembered. Tapanuli fever. He’d told her she’d been infected with a tropical disease and she was in an isolation ward.

‘Oh, yeah, Tapanuli fever. Used to be known as the Black Formosa Corruption, back in Victorian days. Endemic to a few small regions of… er… South America. Argentina. I’m guessing that someone in Cardiff’s just got back from doin’ missionary work out there or something.’

‘I’ve never heard of it.’

Not surprising, considering he’d made it up. ‘It’s very rare. Like Ebola. Nobody’d heard of that until there was a sudden spate of deaths.’

‘And is that what’s going to happen to me?’ She was trying to be offhand, but he could hear the catch in her voice. ‘What’s the mortality rate? Isn’t that what you call it — “mortality rate”?’

Almost involuntarily, his right hand reached out as if to take hers and squeeze it reassuringly, but all it encountered was smooth, cold glass. After a moment there was a small thud as something hit the glass on the other side. Her hand, seeking his.

‘I won’t let you die,’ he said.

‘You didn’t answer the question.’

‘We just don’t know. In the jungle-’

Did they have jungle in South America? Or was it pampas? What the hell was pampas, anyway?

‘-In the jungle, half the people who catch it die. But we’ve got you under observation, and we can treat it with antibiotics and stuff. I won’t let you die.’

‘You’ve got me isolated. It must be very contagious.’

‘We have to take precautions.’

‘You haven’t even given me any antibiotics. You’ve just left me here, waiting.’

‘The tests. We’re looking at the results of the tests. Then we can treat the disease.’

Perhaps, he wondered, he could give her an injection. Just distilled water, but he could tell her it was an antibiotic. It might help her cope.

‘I wish I could see my family,’ Marianne said wistfully. ‘They could just stand the other side of the glass, couldn’t they?’

Owen knew that he shouldn’t be talking to her this way, but he couldn’t help himself. Jack would have told him to just leave her alone — do whatever tests were necessary and not engage in conversation — but he couldn’t do that. Unlike most of the people and the things that had ended up in the cells, she didn’t know what was happening to her. She needed reassurance.

She needed a friend.

‘They’ve been notified,’ Owen told her, ‘but they’ve got to stay away. We’re paid to take risks, here. They’re not.’

‘Could I write them a letter?’

He squeezed his eyes shut. Beneath the thin layer of chirpiness she put on, there was a deep chasm of vulnerability and fear. And he wasn’t sure whether he was making things worse or better. ‘Too risky. We’d have to spray the letter with antibiotics and stuff, to kill any bacteria, and the words’d just smudge and run off. It wouldn’t look pretty.’

‘Neither will I, if this goes on for much longer. I can’t wash, I can’t take a bath, and I haven’t got a change of clothes.’

‘Clothes we can find,’ Owen said quickly. ‘And I can probably get a bowl of hot water and some soap as well. If it’s any consolation, you still look great.’

‘Thanks. I bet you say that to all the dying girls in your care.’

‘Only the beautiful ones.’

‘Actually, some hot water would be nice. I must smell awful.’ She paused. ‘Talking of which, there’s a really crappy smell in this place, and it’s not me. It smells like the elephant house at the zoo. You know — that smell you get from things that eat hay all the time and then let it fester.’

It was probably the Weevil at the other end of the block, Owen thought, but he couldn’t tell her that. ‘It’s the drains. This area of the… hospital… hasn’t been used for a while. There’s probably all kinds of stuff down there. I’ll get someone to take a look at them.’

‘At the very least you could get an air freshener.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘Thanks, Owen.’

He felt a shiver run through him at the sound of his name, said in her soft Welsh lilt. There was something almost erotic in talking to her and yet not seeing her. If they’d been face to face in a bar then he would have been touching her arm by now, gazing into her eyes, smiling, looking away and then looking back. But now, like this, it was like talking on the phone, but with the added frisson that she was only a few inches away from him. Close enough that he could hear her breathe; feel the glass vibrate if she shifted position.

‘Owen,’ she said, ‘can I ask you a question?’

‘Nothing’s stopped you yet.’

‘Is there someone else down here with me? Someone else in isolation?’

‘What makes you think that?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Never answer a question with another question,’ she said, a laugh in her voice; ‘it sounds evasive. I thought I heard someone moving around. I tried talking to them, but they didn’t answer.’

Marianne was at one end of the block of cells; the Weevil was at the other. ‘You probably heard a nurse moving around,’ he said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could. And Owen was the past master at faking sincerity.

‘You’re lying to me. I think there is someone there. I think they’ve got the same thing as I have, this Tapanuli fever. And I reckon they’re even further gone than I am. Is that what I can look forward to: losing the ability to talk, just shuffling around in this awful place until I die? Is that what it’s come to?’

‘I won’t let that happen, Marianne.’

‘How can you stop it?’ Her voice sounded muffled.

‘I don’t know yet, but I will. I promise, I will.’

He turned to face her, twisting around on the flagstones, but Marianne still had her back to him. Her face was buried in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking with the effort of holding back the tears.

Grangetown was the opposite of an up-and-coming area. It was down-and-going, if that meant anything. Gwen had spent a lot of time there when she was in the police — raiding houses, breaking up family feuds, making door-to-door inquiries — and the place still made her feel like someone was watching her, all the time. All the vegetation — the trees, the bushes, the flowers in the gardens — looked dry and faded. Desperation and curdled anger seemed to seep from the drains and the gutters. The place had a kind of leaden gravitational pull that made it easy to get in and much harder to get out again.

Gwen was sure that when she’d first arrived, parking her car around the corner and walking into the road she wanted, hands in pockets and looking casual, the first person she saw reached for a mobile phone. Maybe she was imagining things, but she could almost feel the invisible web of warnings fanning out from that one person: watch out, there’s a stranger in the street. Might be the police.

The flat that Lucy shared with her junkie boyfriend was about halfway along the street. Gwen paused by the gate and looked at the outside. The curtains were drawn. One window was cracked. The house had been converted into flats: the hall appeared to have been divided, and there were two doors, one that presumably led to the ground floor and the other giving access to the stairs up to the first floor. Paint was peeling off both doors, and weeds formed a border along the junction between the concrete of the front garden and the walls and the front step.

She rang the bell for the right-hand door. Judging by the fact that the house to the left had its door next to this one, the stairs were on the left of the hall, meaning that the right-hand door gave access to the ground floor, where Lucy lived. She was there looking for Lucy, and if she just opened the door it would make Gwen’s job easier. Alternatively, if her boyfriend opened the door it would save Gwen the trouble of having to break in.

Breaking and entering. How had it come to this? If there was one thing they had drummed into her in the police force it was that in order to enforce the law they had to uphold it. By committing minor infringements — illegal entry, planting evidence, forcing a suspect to confess to something they hadn’t done — all the police did was to abandon the moral high ground. It didn’t matter that they were doing it in the name of the greater good; by doing it, they subverted the greater good. They became criminals arresting criminals, which turned the whole thing into a glorified gang war.

And yet here she was, just about to break into someone’s house, with a gun tucked into the waistband of her trousers. Prepared to do anything — even kill, if it was necessary in order to preserve her own life — and all in the name of the greater good. All in the name of saving the human race from the dark things that hid in the darkness, waiting for their chance to get in.

She shivered. What was it about Grangetown that made her suddenly feel dirty and old?

She rang the bell again, but there was no answer. Slipping her hand in her pocket, she took out a Leatherman, a multi-purpose folding tool that one of her police colleagues had introduced her to. The thinking person’s Swiss Army Knife, he had called it. Quickly she folded out a flat knife blade. Making it look as if she was putting a key into the Yale lock then, blocking her hand with her body, she slipped the blade into the gap between the door and the jamb and, while she levered the blade, she used her shoulder to apply pressure to the door. Most locks only engaged for a few millimetres or so, due to clumsy fitting, and some pressure in the right place could just ease the cam of the lock away from the housing.

And it worked. The door gave under her shoulder, and she quickly eased her fingers around the wood as it moved, trying to ensure that it didn’t suddenly fly in, banging on the wall.

Gwen moved into the shadowed hall and closed the door behind her, partly so she didn’t alert anyone in the house to her presence, partly so she didn’t alert anyone in the street to something unusual, and partly so her eyes could adjust more quickly to the darkness.

The first thing that struck her was the smell. Dirty washing, dirty plates, and something else. Sour metal. That very particular smell of blood.

She eased the Glock 17 from her waistband and held it high, pointed at the ceiling, safety clicked to off. Ready for anything.

Gwen entered the front room first, easing herself around the half-open door, alert for movement. There was nothing. The room was empty; bare floorboards, a sofa that had seen better days, DVD cases and discs scattered around the floor, and a surprisingly large HDTV set with full audio-visual set-up. Including speakers by the TV itself and on either side of the sofa. Her police training told her that it had probably been nicked; her knowledge of Lucy told her that the girl probably bought expensive toys for her boyfriend with her wages, which he eventually got around to selling to fund his drug habit. Cruel, but she’d seen it so often before.

After checking behind the door, she moved back into the hall. The kitchen was straight ahead, and she could see its length from where she stood. Piles of plates, crockery, cutlery, pans, all waiting to be washed. Several tinfoil takeaway containers with sauces of various kinds dried into them. No people.

The cupboard doors stood open, and there were packets of rice and biscuits on their sides, sticking out into the kitchen. Someone had been ransacking the place, looking for something. Looking for food, perhaps.

The door to the back room was closed, and she pushed it open with her gun.

The smell of blood — dryness, rust and sourness — intensified.

The body of Lucy’s boyfriend was slumped across the bed in the back room. He was naked. His throat had been ripped out: blood had fountained across the ceiling, the bedspread and the wall behind the head of the bed. Chunks of flesh had been torn from his shoulders, his chest and his arms. His head was turned away but, judging by the blood that stained his cheeks, his eyes had been pulled out of his head.

Or sucked out.

Sucked out and eaten.

Gwen moved into the room, still alert for any movement but aware that she was probably too late. It looked as if Lucy had already had her snack.

The duvet had twisted about his lower half, probably as he fought to get away from his attacker, but there was a pool of glutinous blood congealing in its folds. Gwen had no desire to check, but she was pretty sure that his genitalia had been ripped away and swallowed whole. She only hoped he’d been dead when it happened. Junkie or not, nobody deserved that kind of death. Especially at the hands of their girlfriends.

Bile rose in Gwen’s throat, bitter and acid, at the thought that this might have been Rhys. She might have returned from Torchwood to find him like this. On their bed. Twisted up in their duvet. Half-eaten.

‘He tasted strange.’

The voice came from behind her. Gwen cursed, even as she turned and brought the gun up.

Lucy was standing behind the door. She stepped forward, the door starting to close as her body pushed past it. It was difficult to tell where the blood stopped and her clothes began. Her mouth and chin was smeared with it. Under other circumstances, Gwen might have thought she was vomiting the stuff, but she knew different. The blood wasn’t Lucy’s.

‘It must have been the drugs,’ Lucy went on. ‘The heroin. It made him taste strange. Bitter, and a bit tingly.’ She paused, and seemed to take in Gwen, and the gun, for the first time. ‘How’s Rhys?’ she asked brightly. ‘I hope he’s OK.’