friend. Well, not really a friend – more a bastard, really. But he died. And it’s easy to remember someone fondly if they’re dead. Especially when they died twice, if you’re counting. Twice dead bastard.’ He giggles.
Debbie is nodding with the slightly glassy look of someone who isn’t even listening.
Ianto ventures on. ‘And Owen thought there was something wrong about the boat. And he was right – I think there’s some alien medical procedure taking place on that boat. And that’s never good. And I’m supposed to stay sober on a mission. But then I think I’m being followed. So, I decide to blend in by getting drunk with you. Which may not have been the wisest thing. So it’s Ianto Jones, secret agent, saving the Cardiff Ferry from an alien invasion, just a little bit legless. So yes, I guess in many ways it’s oh dear.’ He takes an ill-advised swig of his pint and grimaces. ‘Oh, this is going down like sick.’ He rests the glass on the table hurriedly. ‘Anyway – I’m very important. I’m saving Cardiff.’
Debbie nods again and pats his hand. ‘Phil was shagging Kerry a couple of months ago,’ she says, quietly.
Many hours later, they stagger onto the boat for the journey back. Kerry is throwing up into a bin to the disgust of customs officials. Debbie has a spring in her step and flashing plastic devil horns in her hair. Ianto is carrying a traffic cone.
He makes it back to his tiny little orange cabin and slumps down on the lower bunk, the traffic cone resting unsteadily by him. He sinks his head in his hands. ‘I am so hammered,’ he thinks sadly. ‘I’ve had a brilliant weekend, clearly. I haven’t let my hair down in ages. But I haven’t really saved the world.’
He wraps his arms round the traffic cone, and settles down for a sleep. At no point does he even notice the envelope resting on the floor.
The knock on the door wakes him. It is night and the throbbing of the engines pounds in his head. ‘Whu?’ he manages, unsteadily getting to his feet. He is praying it isn’t Debbie. Or, dear god forbid, Kerry.
Instead it is a small, dapper little man in a steward’s uniform. He has a drooping orange moustache that makes him look pleasantly like Asterix. ‘Sir,’ says the man with the perfect English of a Norwegian. ‘You are awaited in the Kielty cabin.’
‘Ah,’ says Ianto. ‘Thank you. Do you mind if I…?’ He gestures to the sink, where he splashes some cold water on his face and straightens his tie. Oh god, he feels awful. He grabs the complimentary bottle of water from the washstand and starts to drink it as they walk. His mouth tastes terrible as though… oh no. Has he been smoking? He really can’t remember. Lisa will kill him.
As they walk his brain does three bits of thinking. The first pieces of thinking it has done for almost twenty- four hours. The first thought is ‘Kielty’ – the name was mentioned in the newspaper story. Ross Kielty had apparently been a passenger, and spoke in glowing terms of the treatment. In the same article… something else familiar. The picture. He’d seen someone else in the picture. He tries to remember who. But it now seems obvious that the whole Hope Boat is an elaborate cover for something else.
The steward leads him to a door and then melts away. Ianto sadly swallows the last of the bottled water and knocks. A quite beautiful woman opens the door and smiles kindly.
‘Mr Jones?’ she says, holding out her hand. Her handshake is easy and strong. ‘Thank you for coming. My name is Christine. Do take a seat.’
He steps into the cabin – which seems to be the ferry’s equivalent of a stateroom. It is still the size of a small caravan, but feels almost palatial.
The woman, amazingly dressed and terribly calm, sits down opposite him, and smiles. She is half of the couple who had come into the cinema late. She is professionally friendly. ‘Now, briefly tell me what can we do for you?’
‘Ah,’ says Ianto. ‘Can you cure my hangover?’
Christine’s laugh is a sharp little rattle. ‘Oh, we can cure a lot more than that, Mr Jones. What was it that you came to see us about? Surely something more serious?’
Ianto sighs. ‘I don’t know. I read about the treatments offered on this boat, and I wondered… well. You see, in the last year I’ve lost my girlfriend and two friends. They all died. And everyone thinks very sad, but move on. But I can’t. I’ll be at work, and I’ll remember a conversation I had with her, or a row with Owen, just a little thing, and I’ll be stuck. I want that to stop. I know you can cure my body – but can you cure my mind? Can you make it so that I never think about any of them ever again?’
Christine reaches out a hand that brushes his lightly. Her smile is wan and melancholy. ‘Oh, Mr Jones. I’m sorry for your loss… deeply and sincerely so.’ A heavy breath, and then more warmth in the smile. ‘But you’ll be pleased to hear that we
‘Really?’ Ianto, just for an instant, thinks how nice it would be – never to think about Lisa back in his flat. To be able to water Owen’s plants without remembering him. Or dismantling Tosh’s complicated analyses of alien technology – studies that would never be finished, secrets that would never be unlocked. Just forget about them and move on.
Christine leans forward. ‘It won’t take long, and I promise it won’t hurt.’
‘Will it be now?’
She taps his wrist again. ‘So eager! But no – we prefer to have a pre-treatment meeting. Just to screen people, to make sure they’re really happy to take part and that they understand everything. And, also, there is the small matter of payment up front.’ Her smile assures him that, if it were up to her, there wouldn’t be such a thing as payment.
‘Oh, of course!’ Ianto has the bank details of a Torchwood holding account. He passes them over, and she hands him a little slip of paper, discreetly folded in half. He lifts it up, and looks at the amount.
For a second he forgets how tired and drunk he is and instead stares aghast at the figure on the slip of paper. These people could clearly charge anything they wanted. He guesses running a ferry as a disguise can’t come cheap. But still – this is…
He manages a rueful smile. ‘It’ll be worth it in the long run.’
‘Of course,’ Christine lays a reassuring hand around his shoulder. ‘Once these bank details have cleared, we’ll contact you later tonight with a slot for treatment. It should only take a quarter of an hour. Shouldn’t hold up your fun with the hen party!’ She nudges his arm and laughs warmly. Ianto returns her smile weakly. She’s just confirmed that he’s been watched closely ever since he got on the ship.
‘What do you use?’ he asks, suddenly.
Christine doesn’t even look startled. Her voice has an easy, practised flow to it.
‘There are various advanced gene therapies that have been developed which, for one reason or another, just aren’t ever going to be practical for conventional medical care to offer. Too expensive for the NHS, impossible to obtain through other channels. My husband and I have found a way of making these therapies available easily. We use a method of delivery that’s tailored to each subject. Our primary concerns are your health and well-being. We wouldn’t proceed if there was any risk to you, or any chance of the procedure failing. You are in safe hands.’
‘Well,’ thinks Ianto. ‘That was all guff. Deliberately reassuring flannel.’
He makes a face. ‘But are there any injections? I’ve always hated those.’
Christine nods. ‘Oh, me too! But rest assured – this is far less invasive and far more effective. We don’t even need to give you an anaesthetic. Less fuss than a filling. Can you believe it?’
Right, thought Ianto. That does it – they’ve definitely nicked something alien. Miracle alien cures are never good.
He tries to leave her cabin without looking furtive and strides down the corridor, fingering his phone. No signal. He waits round the corner and then, when all is quiet, slips past Christine’s cabin to the one next door, and listens quietly at the door. He can hear a man’s soothing tones and a woman crying quietly. He stands back in the shadows and waits.
Eventually the door opens, and the very handsome man who’d been with Christine stands on the threshold, ushering two figures out. It is the old couple he’d noticed earlier. They are clasping each other and smiling. The old woman has tears running down her smiling cheeks.
‘Now, you’ve nothing to worry about – just go and have a nice little lie-down, and by the time we pull in to harbour, you should notice some dramatic improvements. Just relax and feel the Parkinson’s melt away. No, don’t thank me any more – just settle back and enjoy the next few years together.’
The woman turns and grips Ross Kielty in a fierce embrace. She starts to cry again. Her husband gently takes her shoulders and leads her away. Ianto can hear them laughing as they walk off.
