The Undertakers Gift Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  Recent titles in the Torchwood series from BBC Books:

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Torchwood the Undertaker’s Gift

  Last Week

  Chapter One

  Last Night

  Chapter Two

  Last Chance

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Last Rites

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Last Orders

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781409071860

  Version 1.0

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  Published in 2009 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

  A Random House Group company

  © Trevor Baxendale, 2009

  Trevor Baxendale has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this

  Work in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  Torchwood is a BBC Wales production for BBC One

  Executive Producers: Russell T Davies and Julie Gardner

  Original series created by Russell T Davies and broadcast on BBC Television.

  ‘Torchwood’ and the Torchwood logo are trademarks of the

  British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 846 07782 1

  The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council

  (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation.

  All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at

  www.rbooks.co.uk/environment

  Commissioning Editor: Albert DePetrillo

  Series Editor: Steve Tribe

  Production Controller: Phil Spencer

  Cover design by Lee Binding @ Tea Lady © BBC 2009

  Typeset in Albertina and Century Gothic

  Printed and bound in Germany by GGP Media GmbH

  Recent titles in the Torchwood series from BBC Books:

  9. ALMOST PERFECT

  James Goss

  10. INTO THE SILENCE

  Sarah Pinborough

  11. BAY OF THE DEAD

  Mark Morris

  12. THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

  Guy Adams

  13. RISK ASSESSMENT

  James Goss

  14. THE UNDERTAKER’S GIFT

  Trevor Baxendale

  15. CONSEQUENCES

  James Moran, Joseph Lidster,

  Andrew Cartmel, Sarah Pinborough

  and David Llewellyn

  For Martine, Luke and Konnie

  Acknowledgements

  I am extremely grateful for being given the opportunity to write another Torchwood story. My thanks to Steve Tribe, patient and considerate editor, and to Gary Russell and all at BBC Wales. I hope I’ve done you all proud.

  There are many other people in the production team who deserve a mention – too many to thank individually, but I can’t let the chance go by without offering heartfelt praise and congratulations to all the producers and in particular the people who make writing about Jack, Gwen and Ianto so easy – so here’s to you, John, Eve and Gareth. And a special thank you to Russell T Davies, for creating such lovely characters in the first place – and letting me include one or two guest cameos in this book!

  There is a host of people at BBC Books to thank, too – not least of which are Lee Binding, the cover artist, Kari Speers for proofreading, and the Big Chief himself, Albert DePetrillo.

  Special mention, as ever, to my good friend Pete Stam. And a special ‘shout out’ for Phil Macklin and Matty Ellison!

  And last but not least, I am grateful to my family – Martine, Luke and Konnie, to whom I dedicate all my books because I simply wouldn’t be able to write them without their support and patience. This one meant a lot of very late nights (again) and, more often than not, a thoughtful, frowning silence as I thought about plot problems when I should have been doing something else entirely. I’m very lucky having all of you.

  TORCHWOOD THE UNDERTAKER’SGIFTTrevor BaxendaleBOOKS

  LAST WEEK

  ONE

  ‘Why does it always rain at funerals?’ asked Gwen.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Jack said. ‘It just seems that way.’

  They were standing under a large, black umbrella. A heavy, persistent downpour ran off it in streams and spattered onto the turf at their feet.

  ‘It’s freezing, too,’ muttered Ianto. He clutched the umbrella in one gloved hand, his shoulders hunched miserably inside his black Melton overcoat. It was buttoned up to the collar. His face was pinched and white. ‘What are we doing here, exactly?’

  ‘Paying our respects.’ Jack was wearing his usual RAF greatcoat, the blue-grey wool speckled black with raindrops. He looked thoughtful and pale, as if the grim weather had sucked out his usual good humour and spat it on the ground.

  ‘And who’re we paying our respects to?’ asked Gwen, zipping her leather jacket up to her
throat.

  The mourners had gathered by the side of the grave, huddled together under a large bouquet of umbrellas. The curate was holding one over the vicar as he read solemnly from the Bible, his voice thick with mucous. Occasionally he would stop to wipe at his nose with a handkerchief.

  ‘Thomas Greenway,’ Jack said. ‘Twenty-one last month. Hit by a bus last week. Didn’t look when he crossed the road.’

  Gwen looked back at the mourners. ‘So what’s Torchwood’s interest in this?’

  ‘I’m a friend of the family.’

  The mourners were glaring at Jack with barely concealed hatred.

  ‘Sort of,’ Jack added.

  The pallbearers lowered the coffin into the grave, and Jack shuddered. The parents of the deceased were crying now, the mother trying hard not to give in to the wracking sobs that were lining up in her chest.

  ‘Ashes to ashes,’ intoned the vicar, trying not to raise his voice over the rain. ‘Dust to dust . . .’

  ‘There’s a problem, though,’ Jack said quietly.

  A sudden, loud banging could be heard, like someone knocking urgently on a door. It was coming from the grave. From inside the coffin. People began to step back, startled and confused.

  ‘He ain’t dead yet,’ Jack said.

  The people by the graveside began to moan in distress as the banging continued. They backed away, further and further, leaving only the vicar. He raised his right hand and drew the sign of the cross over the coffin as the knocking increased in ferocity.

  ‘When Tommy was 5 years old,’ continued Jack, ‘he was infected by a Magelnian Twort. Nasty little parasite that came through the Rift. Stays dormant until the host body’s biologic homeostasis fails and the core temperature drops below a certain level.’

  The coffin lid was starting to splinter as it was attacked violently from the inside.

  ‘And then what?’ asked Gwen, beginning to wish she had brought a gun.

  ‘It starts to mutate the host, a full-on DNA rewrite. It’s been happening since the day Tommy died. I tried to warn his folks, but they wouldn’t listen. Insisted on a proper burial, not a cremation.’

  With a loud crack the coffin lid burst open and a shrouded figure emerged. The linen fell away to reveal something only vaguely humanoid, covered in flesh like black rubber. The only discernible feature was a suppurating red orifice in the centre of its head. The assembled mourners groaned with revulsion as the hole puckered open to reveal a ring of jagged teeth.

  ‘So I’m afraid it’s hello and goodbye,’ said Jack, drawing his Webley revolver and shooting the thing through the centre of its head. Mutant brain matter sprayed across the grave, and the corpse fell back into the coffin with a heavy thud.

  For a moment all that could be heard was the echo of the shot rolling around the cemetery and the harsh, excited cries of the rooks that had flown out of nearby trees in shock.

  Then silence.

  ‘Bloody Torchwood,’ said the vicar, taking off his glasses to wipe specks of alien goo from the lenses.

  Ianto stepped forward, gently offering the deceased’s mother a glass of water. He had seemingly conjured the glass out of thin air. It was a skill that only the very best butlers could master, as Jack would often point out. He loved to tease.

  ‘Here,’ Ianto urged softly. ‘Drink this.’

  Stunned into acquiescence, Mrs Greenway sipped the water. ‘That wasn’t Tommy,’ she muttered, dazed. ‘That wasn’t my Tommy . . .’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t,’ Ianto assured her.

  ‘Wh-what was it?’

  ‘Allow me to explain.’ He led her away from the grave towards the rest of the mourners. The water was laced with Retcon. Ianto was highly skilled in the art of proffering reasonable explanations for unreasonable incidents, and he had a box of the little white pills in his coat pocket. There would be quite a few people needing a drink and an explanation right now.

  Gwen had been left with the umbrella. She stood with Jack at the graveside and looked down at the crumpled heap in the coffin. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,’ she said. ‘And I suppose that’s probably a good thing.’

  ‘It is,’ Jack confirmed. ‘I’ve stood by way too many gravesides. And I’ve been in a few. It never gets any easier.’

  There was a disturbing, faraway look in his eyes. Gwen had seen that look before. She thought of Tosh and Owen, and guessed that Jack had stood over the graves of a great many Torchwood operatives in his time – colleagues and friends, and probably lovers as well. Gwen wondered if he would end up standing by her grave one day. And when she caught the desolate expression in those clear blue eyes as they turned to look at her, she knew he was wondering the same thing.

  Gwen struggled for a way to change the subject and found, with relief, that there was something to change it for her. On the far side of the cemetery, ghost-like in the shadow of the slender birches that circled the graveyard, was a thin, dark figure in a long coat. He looked very pale, and he was watching them carefully. Gwen touched Jack’s arm. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Trouble,’ said Jack, following her gaze.

  The spectral figure waited for them to join him beneath the trees. Gwen had mistaken him for another mourner, or perhaps the driver of the hearse – his long, buttoned coat stretched down to his ankles, and he was wearing black gloves. But, close up, Gwen realised that he was not even human. He was preternaturally thin, the skin of his face was as white as chalk, and he was completely hairless. He had grey eyes with vertical pupils and nictitating eyelids. The lips were white, the interior of his mouth blue-black when he spoke.

  ‘Jack!’ he hissed by way of greeting. It sounded like an expletive.

  ‘Do you two know each other?’ asked Gwen, slightly irritated by the way the alien was pointedly ignoring her. His goat-like eyes were fixed only on Jack. Nothing unusual there, she supposed.

  ‘Gwen Cooper, meet Harold.’

  Gwen blinked. ‘Hello, Harold.’

  The alien ignored her.

  ‘I don’t know his real name,’ Jack confessed. ‘So I call him Harold. He prefers to remain incognito.’

  ‘I come with a warning,’ Harold said, somewhat portentously. He raised a gloved hand to his lips and Gwen was not in the least surprised to see that it held a cigarette. He took a long drag and then blew smoke out through his aquiline nose. ‘Your old friends from Hokrala Corp are on the warpath again.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I know all about them, Harold. They’ve been coming here every year since the turn of the century, trying to land a writ on me. Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘All right,’ said Harold, aiming a smoke ring at Gwen.

  ‘Hey,’ said Gwen, wafting.

  Harold’s gaze remained on Jack. ‘They’re planning more than legal action this time, Jack. Hokrala want you by the balls . . .’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘. . . and they’re going to squeeze until you scream.’

  ‘I can handle the Hokrala Corp lawyers.’

  ‘Is that a fact? Good for you.’ Harold took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘But I happen to know that they’re planning something a little more fatal than a writ this time. Word is they’ve hired an assassin.’

  Jack laughed. ‘An assassin?’

  ‘Yes. They want you out of the way – permanently.’

  ‘They’re going to find that a bit difficult,’ mused Gwen.

  Harold gave a minute shrug. ‘Please yourselves. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘OK.’ Jack straightened his face and nodded. ‘Thanks for the tip-off. But, really, I think we can handle it.’

  Harold sighed theatrically. ‘You always were the glib one, Jack – silver of tongue and pert of cheek. But listen to a word of advice from an old acquaintance.’ He pronounced the word ‘acquaintance’ in a way that quite clearly differentiated it from ‘friend’.

  Jack’s eyes narrowed fractionally. He could sense trouble. ‘What is it?’

&
nbsp; ‘I don’t know the full details, but I do know that the Hokrala people are worried – very worried – that things are about to go somewhat awry for Earth in the twenty-first century.’

  ‘Tell them not to worry. We’ve got it covered.’

  ‘Hmm. Torchwood.’ Harold looked as if he had just licked the bottom of his shoe. ‘Well, that could just be the problem.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Gwen asked.

  Harold glanced at her and sniffed, as if he was reluctant to even speak to her. ‘They don’t think Torchwood can handle it.’

  ‘Handle what?’

  ‘The twenty-first century.’

  ‘Hokrala’s beef is with me,’ said Jack, bristling. ‘Hell, they can send their assassin if they want. Good luck to him.’

  Harold took a drag on his cigarette and blew a smoke ring at Gwen. ‘Have it your own way, dear boy. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  And with that Harold flicked away the cigarette with a sharp, reptilian movement of his fingers. Gwen watched it land in a flowerbed, and when she looked back Harold had disappeared. Completely.

  ‘Hey!’ she said.

  ‘Teleport,’ Jack said, checking the readings on his wrist-strap. He let out a hiss of impatience. ‘Show-off.’

  LAST NIGHT

  TWO

  Rachel ‘Ray’ Banks hurried through the darkened streets of Cardiff. According to her watch it was nearly 4 a.m. There was absolutely no one else about, and the emptiness was starting to creep her out. She stopped at a deserted crossroads. The street lamps were on, the orange sodium glare reflecting on the ice-wet tarmac like night-time mirages. There was no one about. Not a soul. It was as if Ray had the entire city to herself.

  It was seriously starting to feel a bit freaky now.

  Maybe she should have taken Gillian’s advice and stayed on at the party. At least Ray would have had a place to crash for the night, even if it had meant fending off the more amorous – or drunk – partygoers. And it wasn’t a great sign when even Gillian’s advice sounded good.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re going already?’ She recalled Gillian’s aghast expression quite clearly. Ray had explained – as patiently as she could when yelling over Lily Allen’s ‘Not Fair’ at full blast – that she had a lecture first thing in the morning and really ought to be leaving.