‘No, no.’
‘What happened to your clothes? Were you roughed up?’
‘I suppose you could say that.’
‘I should call the police,’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Did you see who did it?’
‘Shiznay-’
‘The police will help you. You can’t stay here.’ Her mind whirled. If she rang the police, her father would know. He’d see how Mr Dine had broken in. There would be all sorts of trouble.
But she couldn’t just turf the man out into the street, not the state he was in, even if she did ring in an anonymous 999.
‘I’ll have to call the police,’ she insisted.
‘No. They can’t help me. Please do not call them. I just need to rest. To recover.’
She peered at him closer. ‘Oh goodness!’ she blurted, realising what she was seeing. ‘Oh good lord, they stabbed you! They stabbed you, didn’t they?’
Despite the half-light, she could distinctly see the dark fluid oozing out of a gash in his ribs. There was a pool of it on the floor.
‘It’s not from a knife,’ he said. ‘I received a contact injury. It’s healing. Let me take time to heal.’
‘You need to go to Casualty. You need stitches at least. That’s not just going to heal on its own.’
He suddenly looked at her quite fiercely. His eyes blazed intently. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘I promise you, it is. I just need somewhere safe to lie and rest. Somewhere safe. I thought you could…’
‘You can’t stay here,’ she said.
He sighed and nodded. He began to move himself, as though intending to get up. ‘I understand. I will go.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ll find somewhere.’
She put a hand out and restrained him gently. ‘I meant… you can’t stay here. In here. My father will be up at six, and there’ll be food prep. People will come in here and find you. You can’t stay in here.’
‘Where, then?’
‘Can you move? If I help you, can you move really quietly? Really, really quietly?’
‘I think so.’
It took a moment to hoist him up. He was heavy and his skin was hot, almost feverish. Bracing him, she shuffled them out of the pantry and propped him against a counter.
‘Stand there, just a second.’
Mr Dine swayed, but remained upright, holding onto the edge of the counter.
Shiznay went back into the pantry, dropped a sheet of old newspaper over the puddle of blood, and heaved two sacks of onions and sack of potatoes over to cover the paper. She picked up the pan, stepped out of the larder and closed the door. Then she hung the pan back up where she’d found it.
‘All right,’ she whispered, coming back to him. ‘Here we go. Really quietly, OK?’
TWENTY-FOUR
He smelled coffee. Not just any coffee. Ianto’s coffee.
He woke up.
He felt stiff and sore. His head throbbed. He looked around, but he was alone. At some point in the night, Gwen had gone.
Slowly, gingerly, James sat up. He worked his shoulder slightly, then leaned over and turned up one of the lamps. He saw his watch lying on the cabinet and picked it up. Nearly ten a.m. Quite a sleep.
With care, testing out his aches and pains, he swung his legs around and got out of bed. There was a hospital dressing gown on the back of the door.
‘Oh, no!’ cried Owen. ‘Oooh no, no, no, no, no!’
He leapt up from his work station the moment he saw James shuffling into the main space of the Hub.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, reaching James.
‘I woke up,’ said James.
‘Lovely. Go back to bed.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Listen, mate, when a doctor — like me — puts a patient — like you — in bed, staying there is part of the deal.’
‘I’m OK.’
‘We’re getting you back into bed,’ said Owen. ‘That’s first. Then I’ll run a bunch of standard tests. Then, and only then, will I say if you’re OK.’
‘Can I have coffee?’ James asked. He saw Ianto up by the coffee machine, busy. He waved. Ianto waved back.
‘No, you can’t,’ said Owen, and began to steer James back towards the door.
James could see Jack in his office. The door was closed, and he was on the telephone, deep in conversation.
‘What’s Jack doing?’
‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet,’ said Owen. ‘That whole secret early warning thingy whatsit. He’s making some calls.’
‘To who?’
‘Oh, like he’s going to tell me,’ snapped Owen.
‘But at a guess?’
‘The Pentagon, NASA, Project Blue Book, NATO, UNIT, International Rescue, Starfleet, and the Fortress of Solitude,’ replied Owen, ‘but that’s me just speculating wildly.’
‘Where’s Gwen?’ James asked.
‘She’s gone out with Tosh. She told me to say hi. There was a kiss too, but I’m not prepared to pass that on.’
‘Where’s she gone out to?’
Colonel Joseph Peignton Cosley was as forbidding as his home. Fifty-ish, jowelly, with a Kitchener moustache that suited his choice of army attire, he glared at Gwen, his hand on the pommel of his cavalry sabre, as if expecting her to kick off some trouble any minute.
‘That’s him in 1890,’ said Toshiko, reading off the plaque.
Gwen folded her arms and continued to stare at the large, gilt-framed painting.
‘He looks a bit of a…’
‘A what?’ asked Toshiko.
‘Twat,’ Gwen said. ‘Not the kind of bloke you expect to know secret things about the fate of the world. More like the sort of bloke who’d know how to horsewhip his manservant or shove a bayonet into some African person.’
‘“Horsewhip his manservant”?’ asked Toshiko.
Gwen glanced at her. ‘I know. Even as I said it, I knew it was going to sound dodgy.’
‘At least Owen isn’t here,’ said Toshiko. ‘Otherwise he’d be adding that to his little book of squalid euphemisms.’
The long, panelled hallway was gloomy and quiet. Other dingy paintings hung on the walls above items of stately, roped-off furniture. Heavy morning drizzle beat against the grand windows. From a nearby room, they could just make out the sound of a Cadw guide leading a tour.
Toshiko was leafing through the guidebook she’d bought. She’d opted for the fat, expensive guide instead of the thin illustrated pamphlet.
