Torchwood: Slow Decay (24 page)

‘I’m not getting excited,’ he said. ‘I’m just worried about you.’

‘That’s nice. I’m OK. I’ll be even better when I get to bed.’

‘You need to put some antibiotic cream on those scratches. Funnily enough, I actually have some you can use. It’s in the bathroom cabinet.’

‘OK.’

‘You’re not moving.’ His arms went around her. ‘What happened with Lucy?’

‘She’s in custody. In a secure unit.’

‘Will I have to make a statement?’

Gwen shook her head against his chest. ‘I don’t think so. There’s obviously something wrong with her.’ She brought her hands up and pushed herself away from Rhys. ‘Get yourself to bed. I need something warm to cuddle into.’

Rhys headed for the bedroom, pulling his shirt off as he went, and Gwen went into the bathroom. She reached for the door to the bathroom cabinet and pulled it open. Paracetamol, cotton buds, athlete’s foot cream, tampons… where the hell was the antiseptic cream?

OK, there it was, sitting on the bottom shelf.

Right in front of the blister pack that only had two plastic blisters on it, one of which was empty.

And Gwen knew with a sickening lurch in her stomach that if she turned it around, the foil on the back would have two words printed on it.

‘Start’ and ‘Stop’.

FOURTEEN

The Torchwood meeting next morning didn’t get off to a good start, as far as Toshiko was concerned. Owen was bruised and surly; Gwen was bruised and moody; and Jack was irritated at one or the other or both of them. And Ianto was Ianto, fussing around the coffee machine just outside the Boardroom, trying to adjust the temperature of the steam, until Jack eventually said, ‘OK: staff treat. We all need cheering up. We’re going out for breakfast.’

They went out through Ianto’s tourist information centre, and Jack led them to a Turkish-owned café that was perched on stilts out over Cardiff Bay. The waves were slate grey and topped with spume, washing over the pebbles that made up what little beach there was. Odd fragments of wood and plastic floated on the water’s surface, eddying back and forth as if they weren’t sure where they were going. A lone swan emerged from beneath the wooden pier that separated the water from the land, aloof and unassailable. In the distance, Penarth Head was almost lost in mist, grey against grey.

‘We’ve had a hell of a few days,’ Jack said after the waiter had taken their order. ‘I know it’s all looking bleak. It happens. Whatever’s going on here is complicated, and I don’t think we have all the answers yet.’

‘
Nakitsura ni hachi
,’ Toshiko murmured. At Jack’s questioning look, she added: ‘It’s a Japanese saying: “The bee always stings when you’re crying”. It means that things go from bad to worse before they get better. If they get better.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. And I think that part of the problem is that some of us have pieces of information that the others aren’t privy to. If we’re going to make anything of this mess, we need to share whatever we have. Who wants to go first?’

‘We have three people showing symptoms,’ Gwen said, her voice flat, her gaze aimed at the tablecloth. ‘Lucy Sobel and Marianne Till are both in custody in the Hub. We have to assume there are more people out there with this problem, whatever it is.’

‘Owen,’ Jack said, ‘what exactly are we dealing with here?’

‘I don’t know,
exactly
. Tosh’s computers are still processing the scans from that hand-held thing she knocked together. All I know from close observation is that the symptoms are extreme hunger leading to psychosis and exaggerated strength. Both Marianne and Lucy seem to be trapped in a mental state where the hunger is compelling them to attack people and eat them. Then their minds are glossing over the details and persuading them that they’ve been hallucinating. I suspect that whatever they are suffering from makes them suggestible, as well as psychotic. Blood work is normal, and there’s no outward manifestation of disease. I’m picking up no bacteria or viruses in the atmospheric checks, so I can’t see it being contagious.’

‘It’s not Tapanuli fever, then?’ Jack enquired.

Owen glowered at Jack. ‘I invented Tapanuli fever. It doesn’t exist. It’s not real.’

‘You sure? I only ask because I don’t think I’m inoculated. I missed that day at school.’

‘Look, I was trying to reassure her! I wanted to keep her calm!’

‘Right,’ Jack drawled. ‘That worked out well, didn’t it?’

The waiter arrived with their orders, and they stopped talking while the plates were set down: full English breakfast, with black pudding, scrambled egg, sausage, bacon and fried bread.

‘Should we be talking about all this?’ Ianto asked. ‘I mean…’ He indicated the waiter with a nod of his head.

‘Not to worry,’ Jack said. ‘I’ve got a blanking field generator under the table. Brought it with me from Torchwood. Nobody can hear us outside a six-foot radius.’

Ianto’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking!’

‘Absolutely,’ Jack replied. ‘Actually, the waiter only speaks ten words of English, and three of those are swearwords. He can swear like a trooper in Turkish as well. In fact, last time I checked he could swear in fifteen different languages. I think he used to be a sailor. Then again, I think
I
used to be a sailor. There are periods in my life that are a bit vague. That’s one of them.’ He turned to Gwen. ‘Oh, and by the way, you didn’t say who the third person is who’s affected.’

‘It’s Rhys.’ She didn’t lift her gaze from the tablecloth.

Silence fell across the table. Nobody seemed willing to say anything. Eventually, Toshiko leaned across and put her hand on top of Gwen’s. ‘Then whatever this thing is,’ she said, ‘we will stop it. Owen will find a cure and Jack will make everything the way it was.’

‘And as an encore,’ Owen muttered, ‘peace in the Middle East and a resolution to the legal battle between the Americans and the Czech Republic over who brewed Budweiser beer first.’

‘Shouldn’t you be with him?’ Toshiko asked. ‘I mean, if he goes the way of the other two…’

Gwen winced. ‘What was I supposed to do – tie him to the bed? I wanted to stay with him, I wanted to protect him, but I couldn’t tell him why. He only took the pill, a day or two ago, so he’s probably not as far gone as the other two. And if there’s going to be a cure, it’s going to come from here. From us. Staying with him would just… just mean I was waiting for the inevitable. At least here I can pretend I’m helping. So – what’s the progress of this disease, if it is a disease? I have a vested interest now.’

Owen shrugged. ‘If they don’t get enough food, then they start eating themselves.’ He caught the bleak look on Gwen’s face and winced. ‘Sorry, but it’s true. Anyway, I dunno how far they could get before pain or blood loss made them pass out. Maybe both hands and both forearms. That’s just a guess. Then again, given that this thing, whatever it is, seems to affect the brain, maybe it changes the way they feel pain. If they used tourniquets to control the bleeding then there’s no reason why they couldn’t munch their way through both arms up to the shoulders and both legs up to the knees. If they were gymnastic enough, they might get halfway up the thigh. Lips would go as well, of course. They’d probably save the tongue for last, if only because tourniquets wouldn’t work and they’d choke on their own blood.’

Toshiko slid her plate towards the centre of the table. Suddenly she wasn’t feeling hungry.

Judging by Gwen’s white face, she didn’t feel well either. ‘And if they
do
get enough food?’

‘Then I just don’t know.’ Owen speared a piece of fried bread with his fork and bit the corner off. ‘There’s always the possibility that they just keep on going, but I think that’s unlikely.’

‘Why?’ Jack asked, succinctly.

‘Because they aren’t putting weight on.’ Owen used his fork to cut a piece of black pudding. ‘They’re plugging massive amounts of calories into their systems, and those calories are going somewhere apart from hips and thighs. In fact, not only aren’t they putting weight on, they’re actually losing it. I reckon Marianne’s lost half a stone since we caught her, and she’s been eating like pizza’s going to be reclassified as a Class A drug. If she keeps on going, she’s liable to suffer from malnutrition.’ Owen popped a piece of black pudding into his mouth. ‘She could actually starve to death,’ he said, and chewed.

‘I’ve got to ask,’ Jack said, staring at the remnants of the black pudding on Owen’s plate. ‘Although I probably don’t want to. What exactly
is
black pudding?’

‘It’s a kind of sausage made from a blend of onions, pork fat, oatmeal and pig’s blood,’ Ianto said.

‘OK,’ Jack said slowly. ‘Black pudding is made from blood. I get that. Nothing wrong with that. But you can get white pudding as well.’

‘Yeah,’ Owen said cautiously.

‘So what’s that then? The same thing but made with white corpuscles rather than red corpuscles?’

‘It’s just black pudding without the blood,’ Gwen said reassuringly.

‘Although earlier versions often had sheep’s brains as a binding agent,’ Ianto added. ‘Are you going to eat that black pudding?’

‘I think I’ll pass,’ Jack told him.

Rhys was woken up by a pain in his gut. It felt like stones were grinding together in there, rough surfaces grating on each other, and the membranes of his stomach were caught in the middle, torn and bleeding.

He curled up, pulling the sheets over himself and trying to force himself back to sleep, but it was no good. The pain was too intense.

Pain? It was hunger. He was starving.

Gwen had left before dawn, leaving a cup of coffee beside the bed before heading for her precious Torchwood, and Rhys had surfaced for long enough to phone work and leave a message on the answerphone saying that he’d been in an accident, and was taking a few days off. It seemed wiser than telling them the truth. He just hoped that nobody made the connection with Lucy being off work at the same time and came to the conclusion that the two of them were having an affair or something.

Eventually, he threw the duvet off and padded out, naked, into the split living room and kitchen area, taking the now cold cup of coffee with him. He and Gwen lived on the first floor of a converted house, so nobody was going to be gazing in through the window, and they lived in Riverside, so even if anyone could gaze in through the window at him they’d be too polite to do so.

He put the cup in the microwave and blitzed it until it was warm enough to drink. Sipping it, he went to the fridge and pulled out a tub of margarine, peeled the lid off, then walked across the living room and plonked himself down on the sofa.

What the hell was happening?

Scooping out a gobbet of margarine with his fingers he popped it into his mouth and tried to work out where things had suddenly gone wrong. Why, for instance, Lucy had suddenly attacked him. It wasn’t like he’d made a move on her and she’d pushed him away and accidentally injured him; in fact, if anything, she was making a move on him before she took a chunk out of his cheek.

He excavated another gobbet of margarine and slipped it into his mouth, licking his fingers to get rid of the last traces, running his tongue along the sharp edge of his fingernails, then reached up to touch the wound dressing, pressing down lightly on the cotton wool to see how much residual pain there was. Strangely, he didn’t feel anything. Whatever cream they’d used on him the night before had worked a treat.

As he scraped more and more of the thick yellow fat from the tub, Rhys began to wonder what his cheek actually looked like. He’d not dared look at it the night before. The lasting agony of Lucy’s teeth latching onto the flesh and then tearing it away had made it feel like he’d lost the entire cheek. He’d been afraid that if he looked at himself in the mirror he would have seen his teeth and the inside of his mouth through a ragged hole. Even at the hospital he’d been wondering if they were going to operate – perhaps take some flesh from his thigh to replace the cheek, leaving him looking like a living jigsaw puzzle. Thank God Gwen had been there to calm him down. The pain had been intense, pulsing in time with his heart, sending tendrils of agony through the entire side of his face until the painkillers had kicked in. But now… now there was nothing.

Perhaps the nerve had died. Perhaps the skin was turning black around the edges. He sniffed, trying to detect some sign of gangrene, but he didn’t even know what he was trying to find, and all he could smell was the rich oiliness of the margarine. Which, he discovered, looking down at the empty tub, he appeared to have finished.

His stomach had stopped complaining now. Draining the last of his coffee, he got up and went into the bathroom. In the mirror his face looked pasty. It also looked thin. He reached up wonderingly with his hand to feel the area under his chin. It used to bulge slightly, a chubbiness that he’d never really shed since childhood, but now there was a concavity where his neck and jaw joined. And the jawline itself stood out proudly. He smiled. He hadn’t looked that good for years. If ever.

Rhys edged his fingernails beneath the transparent tape beneath his eye socket that held the dressing onto his skin, and paused for a moment. Did he really want to do this? Did he really want to see what was underneath?

Before he could talk himself out of it, he ripped the tape away from the skin. It pulled smoothly away, distorting the flesh in a wave as it went. The dressing fell away, held only by the tape on the bottom, by his jaw.

Leaving behind it an expanse of smooth, pink flesh, marred only by a set of small, crescent-shaped scars where Lucy’s teeth had sunk into the skin.

Scars that he could swear were getting smaller even as he watched.

The waiter came over to clear the plates away and then pour them coffee. Conversation stopped while he worked. Toshiko spent her time looking through the window of the restaurant at the bay outside. A small ferry was docking as she watched. Passengers were waiting on its deck to disembark.

‘OK, people – what’s the connection between Marianne, Lucy and Gwen’s boyfriend?’ Jack asked.

‘The Scotus Clinic,’ Gwen said.