Different fingerprints, voice, DNA, so how am I going to recognise him? He kisses me. And I know at once! Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?’ He grinned dopily.
Ianto looked embarrassed. ‘It really is me Gwen. I really don’t know how I can prove it to you, but-’
‘Please don’t kiss me!’ Gwen protested, giggling and waving him away. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine. Confused, mildly frightened, but basically fine.’ Ianto nodded. ‘It’s me, Gwen. If I’m a cunning alien infiltration plan, then I’m the worst ever.’
Jack smiled. ‘We’ll sort it out. We always do. Somehow. Don’t you worry, Ianto Jones.’
‘Thank you. To be honest,’ admitted Ianto, ‘bit freaked.’
‘Yes, but, on the scale of things, it’s hardly another nuclear blast in Aberdare. It’s more for our HR department.’
Gwen looked troubled. ‘But we don’t have an HR department.’
‘We’ve got you,’ said Jack, and smirked.
Gwen didn’t rise to it. Instead she patted Ianto on the arm. ‘We can solve this. This is nothing – we got you back from being invisible.’
Ianto nodded, his hair cascading neatly down his shoulders. ‘And now I’m the Highly Visible Woman.’ There was a little of his old voice in his laugh.
Gwen glanced at Jack. ‘We should start with his memory, shouldn’t we?’
Jack nodded approvingly. ‘There is something I had in mind, yes.’
Ianto looked alarmed. ‘Oh. You’re going to use something alien on me, aren’t you?’
Jack nodded. ‘Kind of. It’s an anti-retcon pill. Supposed to reverse memory loss.’
‘But…?’
Jack pulled the pill out of a pocket and picked some fluff off of it. ‘It’ll take a while to start working. If it works at all. Maybe three days. Sooner if there’s a trigger. Plus, there’s a tiny danger that you might remember Everything.’
‘What’s wrong about tha-oh.’
‘Yup,’ said Jack. ‘It’s not selective. You might suddenly have a head full of maths tests and Monday mornings.’
Ianto smiled bravely. ‘Who’s to say I don’t already?’ He took the pill, which tasted pleasantly fruity.
‘Hmm,’ said Jack. ‘Hope that was the right pill.’ He patted down his pockets. ‘Ah well. Let me know if you start seeing clowns.’
‘Right,’ said Ianto quietly. ‘Well, let’s wait and see.’ He looked around the room. ‘What’s next?’
‘The ferry crash. Well, by all accounts, more of a ferry prang, really. Although that hasn’t stopped David Brigstocke calling it “a major maritime disaster” on Radio Wales.’
‘Tosser,’ tutted Gwen and Ianto together.
Jack stood up. ‘We should get going.’
Ianto remained seated. ‘Can I stay behind? If that’s all right? I’d like a chance to, you know, work on my memory. Do a few cosy, familiar things. Clean the coffee filter. Feed the Weevils. Stuff.’
‘Good idea,’ beamed Jack. ‘And anyway, I don’t trust you round sailors looking like that. I’ll take Gwen. Much safer.’
He swept out. Gwen scowled at his back and followed him.
Ianto waited until they’d gone, and then slumped onto the table, auburn hair spilling out across the lacquer. ‘Oh god,’ he moaned.
CAPTAIN JACK IS FEELING BUOYANT
You can navigate Cardiff Bay by a succession of expensive follies with interesting names.
Beyond the Welsh Assembly Anti-Terrorist Barriers (erected at vast expense before someone pointed out that you could drive round them) but not quite as far as Cardiff International Heliport, lies the newly opened Cardiff International Ferryport.
Really it was just a patch of Docks not suitable for executive homes or freight due to poisonous mould. So someone had come up with the idea of running a highly subsidised ferry route to Ireland.
It took longer than going via Swansea, but was cheaper, and the ferry had been painted a cheerful shade of green. It had launched a couple of months earlier, with a lot of carbon-neutral fanfare.
When it had opened for business, Gwen had toyed with going. #8216;Ooh, it’s just like the Eurostar,’ Rhys had cooed mockingly, which had put an end to it.
And now here she was, standing at the terminal with Jack, watching the remains of the ferry dragged into the Docks by a tugboat.
The ferry had been a fine bit of 1970s engineering, kept afloat with Norwegian pride and a fresh lick of paint. Now it looked like a kicked tin can, strips of metal fluttering in the breeze like flags.
‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Gwen.
‘I’ve been in worse,’ said Jack, with a hint of professional pride. ‘I’ve seen a World War Two mine rip a battleship apart like wet cardboard. Believe it or not, that ferry is still pretty much seaworthy. Ah, Norway, I salute you. Strong ships and even stronger sailors.’
‘Right,’ thought Gwen. ‘I’ll be spending the day interviewing stunned survivors in Portakabins while Jack’s chatting up the crew. Marvellous.’
The ferry chugged past them, filthy water gushing from tears in the sides.
‘No scorch marks,’ said Gwen.
Jack shrugged. ‘Not that unusual. Those are secondary explosions from the inside out.’ He squinted. ‘Yup. Good news. Definitely not claw marks.’
‘You just don’t want the paperwork,’ teased Gwen.
They watched the ferry bump unsteadily into port.
‘I don’t want any of this,’ he told her. ‘Aliens are the new Health and Safety Nightmare. There are people in high places who are desperate to blame a Rift-related cause for this. It’s more likely the boat just hit something – a World War Two mine’s a World War Two mine you didn’t see coming, whether or not it’s drifted through the Rift. I don’t like being scapegoated every time something goes wrong.’
‘Aliens ate my homework?’ Gwen laughed.
Jack laughed. ‘What a brave new world. Now go and find some eyewitnesses to talk to.’
‘What about Iantoya?’ asked Gwen. ‘Sure we don’t need him?’
‘Oh, he’s best off at the Hub. Until he feels… you know… himself.’
‘Jack Harkness, you are terrible. The poor lamb’s got nothing to look forward to apart from filing, making the coffee and sexual harassment.’
‘I know,’ said Jack. ‘I just want to surround him with familiar things.’
DORICE IS HER USUAL RED
Ianto had a quiet first morning as a woman. There was very little Rift activity, and only a few elderly tourists popped into the Tourist Information Centre that he manned above Torchwood. And then there was Dorice from the Shopping Centre, who dropped in with leaflets once a month. Dorice was, mostly in her own opinion, a right laugh. There was something about her that was a bit too red. He was never quite sure if it was her hair, her dress, her make-up or her nails, but the woman glowed.
He was surprised that he still couldn’t work it out. He’d kind of hoped that, now he was a proper woman, he’d have some kind of X-Ray Fashion Vision that would allow him to solve the mystery of Dorice’s redness. But no. There she was, leaving a huge lipstick mark on a cup of his excellent coffee, talking away, all hair and noise and redness. And still just as puzzlingly red. She was just a vaguely unattractive, slightly untidy, mildly overweight woman in her late forties.