Trace Memory

TEN

The drugs were still coursing through his veins when he came to his senses in the centre of a large loading bay, surrounded by crates and metal containers. Those senses were dulled, but he was still able to get to his feet. The feeling of disorientation passed, and slowly he began to reassemble everything that had just happened to him. There had been Japan, and the monster in the bowler hat, and then the Cardiff he didn't recognise, and the two police officers, and then the injection, and the hospital, and that name…

Torchwood.

The Indian doctor had left him alone, and then… and then… What?

Michael looked around at the crates and the containers, and at the yellow and black striped markings on the floors.

The loading bay was empty. The Indian doctor had said the name Torchwood, and then he had seen them, the men in bowler hats. They were coming for him, he knew that much and, as they walked towards him, hissing and snarling, he had been sent reeling by a violent spasm of pain, and then everything had stopped, and he had felt himself surrounded by light, before waking here.

He thought of it as waking, but how could it be waking when he hadn't slept? And yet every time it had happened that's exactly how it felt, as if everything that had gone before, from his childhood to the arrival of the crate in Tiger Bay, had been a dream.

Michael had taken no more than four steps across the loading bay when the alarm sounded, and a voice said: 'Code 200, Loading Bay 5.'

The fluorescent strip lights in the loading bay powered down, leaving just flickering orange beacon lights to illuminate the vast space like a dozen fiery strobes. The voice spoke again: 'Code 200, Loading Bay 5.'

At either end of the loading bay, roll doors suddenly flew open, spilling white light in across the darkness, and soldiers in arctic camouflage and black berets swept in, brandishing sub-machine guns.

'Don't move!' a voice yelled angrily. 'Keep your hands above your head, and do not move!'

They were getting closer now, the men with their guns, and Michael followed their orders, putting his hands in the air like he'd seen so many thieves and gangsters do in black and white films.

The red spots of laser sights bunched together like angry suns on Michael's face and chest, and he was blinded by the lights before somebody, one of the soldiers, struck him across the back of the head with the butt of their rifle.

When he came to, everything was dark. There was cloth over his face, a hood perhaps, and he was sitting, strapped into a chair. He tried to free himself but couldn't. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing.

The hood was taken away suddenly, and the shock of light meant he could barely make out the soldier who was now leaving the room, closing the door behind him with a loud slam.

It was a small, windowless room with a high ceiling. Fixed into an adjacent wall there was a wide mirror, and in every upper corner what looked like small cameras of some sort, mounted on brackets. Michael was sat at a table, and multicoloured wires were stuck to his chest and scalp. He could see a single, featureless grey door in the opposite wall.

His head still throbbed with pain but he could remember what had happened. The hospital, and then the jump; finding himself in a loading bay, and the men with guns.

Michael looked up at one of the cameras, and he saw it move slightly to point straight at him. Within seconds, the door opened, and two soldiers walked in, followed by a bald man in a white lab coat. The soldiers stood in each corner of the room, their guns aimed squarely at Michael's head, as the bald man approached him.

'Good morning. My name is Dr Frayn. Could you tell us your name?' he asked.

'I'm not telling you anything,' said Michael. 'Not until you tell me why you're treating me like this. Who are you?'

'Mm,' said Dr Frayn. 'British accent. Twenty, maybe twenty-five years old. All readings say human.' He huffed, and began circling the table at which Michael sat. 'EEG and heart rate picking up a certain degree of discomfort. Aggression levels low, but rising. Fear levels high. Nothing to suggest abnormal strength.'

'Who are you?' Michael shouted, but the bald man ignored him.

'Some readings picking up a low-resonance electromagnetic pulse. Awaiting tech-team evaluation. X-rays picked up a fractured rib. No irregularities in organic or genetic make-up. Blood type B. A smoker. Minor traces of alcohol present in blood stream. Cholesterol levels low.'

'Please, just tell me where I am,' said Michael, sobbing now. 'I just want to know where I am.'

'Subject shows signs of disorientation, possibly concussion. Slight bruising on left side of face, confirmed as result of blow to the head. No other injuries resulting.'

Now Frayn faced him directly, and smiled, but there was something mechanical and cold about the expression.

'Can you remember how you got here?' he asked.

'It was the crate,' said Michael, still crying. 'I work at the docks. That's all I do. I work at the docks, and there was a crate. It blew up. The others…'

He looked away from Dr Frayn to the mirror on the wall. He barely recognised himself. How long had he been travelling? How long had this been going on? Days, perhaps? And yet, to him, it felt like an eternity. Time had no meaning any more.

'Tell us your name,' said Frayn, his voice a curious mixture of interrogation and concern. 'Tell us your name, then we can help you.'

'Michael,' he replied. 'Michael Bellini.'

Dr Frayn turned to the soldiers.

'I think that's enough for now,' he said. 'Put the hood on him again, and somebody give Bev Stanley a wake-up call. This is her watch from now on.'

Michael struggled against the restraints, throwing his head from side to side, in the seconds before his world was plunged into darkness once more.

In the darkness and seclusion, it was easy to lose track of time. He tried to count the seconds and then make a mental note of the minutes, but it was no good. He could have been alone in that room for minutes, or hours. It made no difference.

When the hood was lifted again, he saw a smartly dressed woman with shoulder-length black hair and a smile that looked forced.

'Hello, Michael,' she said. 'I'm Bev Stanley. I'm the manager here at Information Retrieval. Basically, I'm just here to brief you on why we are holding you, and looking at what efforts can be made, going forward, to resolve your issue.'

What did any of these words mean? What was she talking about?

Bev Stanley sat in the chair opposite and opened a large folder out onto the table. 'Now it says here that you were found in Loading Bay 5 at around ten minutes past five last night. Is that right?'

Michael shrugged. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I was in a big room. It… It might have been that place you just said. I don't know.'

'OK,' said Bev Stanley. 'It says here you've been gone since 1967. Is that right?'

Michael stopped breathing. What was that supposed to mean? What happened in 1967?

'No?' said Bev, sensing his confusion. 'That doesn't mean anything to you? 1967?'

'How could it?' said Michael. 'What are you talking about?'

'Now, Mr Bellini, there really is no need for you to raise your voice. As I said, we are simply trying to resolve this issue. It says here that you were involved in the Hamilton's Sugar incident in 1967? I can only go by what it says in our files.'

'Well I wasn't,' said Michael.

'OK,' said Bev. 'Could you state your date of birth?'

'First of April 1929,' said Michael.

And who is the Prime Minister?' she asked.

'Winston Churchill,' he replied. He was getting sick of being asked that question.

And your current address?'

'Number 6, Fitzhamon Terrace, Butetown, Cardiff.'

Bev made notes and then began reading from a printed memo. 'OK,' she said, 'I am obliged to inform you that your rights as a civilian have been withdrawn in accordance with International Security Protocol 49 and, as such, we are allowed to hold you here to assist us with our enquiries for as long as is deemed necessary. Your circumstances being as they are, you do not qualify for such terms as outlined in the European Convention on Human Rights or the 1998 Human Rights Act. While our medical team has designated you as Human, your-' she squinted at the piece of paper she had before her '- apparent temporal displacement renders any such rights null and void.' Still reading, she added, 'We apologise sincerely for any inconvenience this may have caused you, and hope to resolve the matter as soon as possible.'

She folded the piece of paper and returned it to the folder, offering him one more smile before she left the room.

He was alone in the room for several hours before anyone else came to see him, hours in which he had little to do but think. He struggled to remember a time before any of this started, the times when he, Hassan, Frank and Wilf would go to the Ship and Pilot after a day's work and laugh at dirty jokes, but the memories were still there. Sometimes, somebody would play the piano and they would sing, or some poor sod would have one too many and knock a table over on their way out, and the whole pub would cheer. Sometimes Wilf's wife would come into the pub, still wearing her slippers, and physically grab him by the ear and drag him home for dinner.

It had been a tough life with long hours, but he had been happy. He wasn't worried about settling down, especially not with Maggie Jenkins. What rush was there? He was happy doing what he was doing, and right now he'd have given everything he had to sit in the Ship and Pilot and hear his friends sing.

Now he wondered whether he was still alive. At first, everything had seemed like a dream, or rather a nightmare, but now, now that he knew this wasn't a dream, it felt like death, or how he imagined death might feel. Was this Hell?

He hadn't been to Confession in a long time; at least since his father died. Was this his punishment? All the sinful thoughts he'd had, all the times he'd sworn, the times he'd been angry with God as he saw his father sink into the bottom of a bottle of Bells, or when his Aunty Megan had told him that his mother was in Heaven now. When life had stopped making so much sense he'd forgotten about church altogether. Was this his sentence?

Perhaps he hadn't survived the explosion. Perhaps, like the others, he had been killed, and this was a Hell designed especially for him. A Hell in which everyone was cruel and uncaring and spoke nonsense, and demons with bowler hats terrorised young children. It even crossed his mind that he might spend eternity in that room, no longer than ten feet and no wider than six — an eternity strapped into a chair, alone.

One thing he knew for sure, if there was any chance of getting out of this barren, soulless place, was that he was tired of running. He'd tired, already, of being afraid, and of running away from things he didn't understand. If he could only get out of this chair and this room he was going to fight back. He was going to find out all about Torchwood, and about the men in bowler hats, and he was going to fight them with every drop of strength he could muster.

His thoughts were interrupted, suddenly, by the opening of the door, and the appearance of a man he recognised, only now he was so much older.

Cromwell.

'Michael,' he said, shuffling into the room, bracing himself against his walking stick. 'Michael Michael Michael… It's been so many years.'

A uniformed guard entered the room, pulling out the spare chair, and Cromwell sat down.

'Old legs not as strong as they used to be,' he said, smiling softly. 'And no space on the helicopter to stretch them, either. Bumpy ride too, choppers. Never liked them. Like sitting inside a cocktail shaker. It was so much better when you could catch the train.'

He sighed, and took off his trilby, dabbing at his now crinkled forehead with a handkerchief.

'Michael,' he said, smiling, 'I'd begun to think we wouldn't see you again. You've been quite the will-o'-the-wisp for us, really you have. We almost caught up with you a few years back, in Cardiff, so I'm told. They sent somebody to the hospital where they were keeping you, but then you were gone. Done a Houdini. Strapped into a bed, and yet somehow you vanished like a puff of smoke. Most impressive. How long ago was that, now?'

'It was yesterday,' said Michael.

Cromwell paused, looking Michael in the eye, and then burst into laughter.

'Yesterday?' he said. 'Oh yes, I suppose it feels like yesterday, and perhaps for you it was yesterday, but for us? Oh, Michael… I wish there were a single one of us who could understand what has happened to you. It's been quite a curious few years, on and off. I really thought we'd seen the last of you in '67, but here you are…'

'Sixty-seven?' said Michael. 'They keep mentioning 1967 but I don't know what they're talking about.'

'No,' said Cromwell, 'I don't suppose you would. To us everything has been moving in a straight line, but for you…' He shook his head and raised his hands in resignation. 'For you it's like a Chinese puzzle, is it not? Popping up, here and there: 1967, your arrest, the training hospital a few years back. Can you even remember half of these things? I doubt it. Oh, Michael, if only we could have had the chance to study you. If only we'd known, those first few days after the explosion. If only we'd had the laws we have nowadays. It was much harder to simply have someone disappear off the streets in '53.'

Cromwell laughed, and once again mopped his brow, chuckling softly.

'So long ago now,' he said. 'For me, at least. You, on the other hand, haven't aged a bit. It must seem like days, to you. There was a boy out there, on reception, probably about your age. Funny boy. Sounded like he was from our side of the bridge, somewhere up in the valleys, I reckon. Stuttered and spluttered his way around asking me if I'd like a cup of tea. Funny to think he's young enough to be your grandson, isn't it?'

Cromwell looked across at the mirror, and ran one hand over his bald head. Michael followed his gaze. It was only now he could appreciate just what Cromwell was talking about. The last time they had met, there had been no more than ten or fifteen years between them, but now Cromwell was a very old man, and Michael was still little more than a boy.

'But time is the decider of every man's fate, is it not?' said Cromwell. 'Some of us die young, and some of us live to be very old men with weak bladders and knees that crack when we get up too quickly. Do you know how you can end this, Michael?'

And now Cromwell turned from his own reflection to look at Michael directly.

'How?' asked Michael.

'The only way,' said Cromwell, 'that this will ever end is when you die.'

'No,' said Michael, looking down to the floor, wishing he could raise his hands to cover his face. 'No, that's just another lie. Like when you came to the hospital, and you said you were from the Union… That's just another lie.'

Cromwell shook his head. 'I'm afraid it isn't, Michael. They want you, you know.'

'Who? Who wants me?'

'Somebody later told me they are called the Vondrax. Strangest things. Some of the victims bled to death, haemorrhaging on a massive scale. Others were burnt to cinders. The sightings, the records, '67… We spent so many years piecing it together for our report, and that's when we came to the conclusion. They're after you. You're the only one who can end this.'

'No,' said Michael. 'How can I end this? What am I supposed to do?'

Cromwell was staring at him gravely when they both heard the alarm.

'Ah,' said Cromwell, 'here they are. As I thought.'

'Who?' asked Michael.

'The Vondrax,' Cromwell replied. 'It was only a matter of time.'

The door to the interview room opened, and two of the armed guards came in.

'Mr Cromwell, Miss Stanley has asked that you stay here with our visitor. It appears we have a Code 200 situation on one of the lower floors.'

'Men in bowler hats, no doubt,' said Cromwell. He seemed unnervingly at ease, as if he had experienced this too many times before.

'Y-yes, sir,' said one of the guards. 'How did you know?'

'Ask our young friend, here,' said Cromwell, smiling broadly. 'He is an old friend of theirs.'

The guards looked from Cromwell to Michael and back again.

'I didn't mean literally,' said Cromwell. 'It was a figure of speech.'

The guards left the room and the door closed. Michael pulled against his restraints, but it was no good.

'Trying to escape?' said Cromwell. 'There really is no need, you know. You're always best at escaping when you aren't even trying.'

'But we need to get out of here!'

'Me, perhaps, yes,' said Cromwell. 'There's every chance I won't be getting out of this one in any fighting condition, but you… You're what they call a dead cert.'

'What do you mean?'

Cromwell didn't answer him, he simply looked at his watch. Somewhere in the building there was an explosion. Even inside a room that was apparently soundproof, it could be heard, and more than heard — it could be felt. 'Here they come,' said Cromwell. 'Like children of the cosmos, I've always felt. So much chaos, so much destruction, so much pointless cruelty, and all they want is their ball back.'

'You're talking in riddles!' shouted Michael. 'Get me out of this chair. You're insane!'

'Oh no,' said Cromwell. 'After fifty odd years of this I am finally quite sane. There's nothing like knowing the future, or in this case the past, to put your mind at ease.'

He looked at Michael, his expression suddenly warm and compassionate, filled with feeling.

'I never did apologise for what we did to you,' he said, smiling softly. 'I never said sorry.'

He closed his eyes serenely, as if he were listening to some soothing piano sonata and, as he did so, the mirror in the wall shattered, sending shards of two-way glass tumbling to the ground.

'They're getting closer,' said Cromwell, his eyes still shut, his expression beatific. 'They don't like mirrors.'

The sound of another explosion, louder now that the two-way mirror was broken, and Michael could see through into the darkened, adjoining room. He could hear people screaming, somewhere beyond the observation room, and in the darkness he saw moving, shadowy forms.

'Please,' said Michael, 'just get me out of this chair. We need to get out of here, now.

'You don't,' said Cromwell. '

You'll be just fine.'

The shapes in the darkness were becoming steadily more visible as each one came into the light from the interrogation room. They looked like men, at first, but then they always did. As each one was illuminated, an identical face was revealed, that same, grey-skinned sneering face, its eyes hidden behind round, black sunglasses, the leering mouth opening to reveal sharply pointed teeth.

'The Traveller…' they said as one.

Cromwell opened his eyes, and looked through the broken mirror as the Vondrax drew nearer. All at once they stopped, each of them breathing heavily, a foul hissing that emanated from their throats, their talon-like fingers wrapped around the jagged, gaping wound in the wall where the mirror had been, poised to enter the interrogation room.

Cromwell turned to face Michael and saw nothing but an empty chair.

'Clever boy,' he said, laughing to himself.

He turned back to face the shattered mirror, and looked straight into the eyes of the Vondrax.