Consequences Read online
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
About the Authors
Acknowledgements
Recent titles in the Torchwood series from BBC Books:
Contents
Torchwood: Consequences
The Baby Farmers: David Llewellyn
Kaleidoscope: Sarah Pinborough
The Wrong Hands: Andrew Cartmel
Virus: James Moran
Consequences: Joseph Lidster
Torchwood Consequences: Nina Rogers
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Published in 2009 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
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© David Llewellyn, Sarah Pinborough, Andrew Cartmel, James Moran and Joseph Lidster, 2009
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Torchwood is a BBC Wales production for BBC One
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About the Authors
David Llewellyn is the author of the fifth novel in BBC Books’ Torchwood series, Trace Memory, and has written the short stories The Book of Jahi and Mrs Acres for the official Torchwood magazine. His other published fiction includes Eleven, Everything Is Sinister and Doctor Who: The Taking of Chelsea 426.
Sarah Pinborough, writer of Supernatural Mystery, Horror, Thriller and Crime fiction, is the author of Torchwood: Into the Silence. Her first novel, The Hidden, was published in 2004, and she has since written The Reckoning, Breeding Ground, The Taken and Tower Hill, alongside many short stories. A Matter of Blood, the first book in a new trilogy, will be published next year.
Andrew Cartmel was Script Editor on Doctor Who from 1987 to 1989. He has written a novella, an audio adventure and several novels and comic strips featuring the Seventh Doctor, plus fiction based on The Prisoner and characters from the 2000AD comic. His first play was staged in 2003, and his memoir of his time on Doctor Who came out in 2005.
James Moran co-wrote Day Three, the third episode of Torchwood: Children of Earth, with Russell T Davies, having previously scripted Sleeper for Series Two of Torchwood and The Fires of Pompeii for Series Four of Doctor Who. He wrote the screenplay for the movie Severance along with episodes for several television drama series, including Primeval, Crusoe, Spooks and Spooks: Code 9.
Joseph Lidster is the author of the Torchwood Series Two epsiode A Day in the Death, the first Torchwood radio play, Lost Souls, a Torchwood audio original, In the Shadows, and a short story for the official Torchwood magazine’s 2008 Yearbook. As well as contributing stories to the second and third series of The Sarah Jane Adventures for BBC Television, he has written numerous audio adventures and short stories for Big Finish’s Doctor Who, Sapphire and Steel, The Tomorrow People and Bernice Summerfield ranges.
Acknowledgements
Our thanks go to:
John Barrowman, Eve Myles, Burn Gorman, Naoko Mori and Gareth David-Lloyd, for giving us such wonderful toys to play with.
Julie Gardner, Richard Stokes, Peter Bennett and the rest of the production team, for making it all happen.
All the writers, especially Helen Raynor and Phil Ford (hope you’ll join us next time), and Chris Chibnall, for allowing us to resurrect some of his creations.
Mark Morris, Guy Adams, James Goss and Trevor Baxendale, for helping bring Nina to life. And Mark, again, for contributing Rianne Kilkenny to Torchwood’s world.
Gary Russell and Brian Minchin at BBC Wales and Albert DePetrillo, Nicholas Payne and Caroline Newbury at BBC Books for constant advice and support.
And, of course, Russell T Davies for. . . so many things.
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
Contents
The Baby Farmers
David Llewellyn
Kaleidoscope
Sarah Pinborough
The Wrong Hands
Andrew Cartmel
Virus
James Moran
Consequences
Joseph Lidster
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
TORCHWOOD CONSEQUENCESJames MoranJoseph LidsterAndrew CartmelSarah PinboroughDavid LlewellynBOOKS
The Baby Farmers
DAVID LLEWELLYN
Through driving rain and howling wind she walked, the shawl barely covering her head and shoulders, let alone the baby in her arms. The skies above the town were lit up with incandescent flashes of lightning, followed soon after by percussive drum rolls of thunder, each sounding for all the world like a monstrous funeral march. And yet the baby slept.
The young woman, Mary, passed the jeering patrons of the Vulcan Hotel and walked beneath the railway bridge, trudging her way through deep, dark puddles before she reached the meeting place on the banks of the canal.
They were already waiting for her: the black carriage drawn by a pair of stout black horses, the coach driver hidden from view by a thick scarf and the brim of a misshapen stovepipe ha
t. As Mary drew near, the carriage door opened and an older woman, matronly and severe, her face pinched and without make-up, stepped out.
‘Mrs Thomas?’ she asked, unfolding an umbrella to shield herself from the pouring rain.
Mary nodded, and curtsied.
‘I’m Mrs Blight,’ said the older woman. She gestured towards the bundle in Mary’s arms. ‘And that is the child?’
The younger woman nodded sheepishly.
‘And Mr Thomas?’ asked Mrs Blight.
‘He doesn’t know,’ said Mary. ‘He’s in Natal. With the army. He’s been there a year now.’
Mrs Blight nodded with a vague air of disdain. ‘I see,’ she said curtly.
Mary unfolded the shawl a little so that Mrs Blight could see the baby.
‘And it’s a boy?’ asked Mrs Blight.
Mary nodded. There were tears in her eyes. ‘You’ve found a home for him?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Blight, without a trace of warmth. ‘A very wealthy couple. The husband is in shipping. They’ve wanted a son for many years but have not been blessed. He’ll go to a loving home, you have my word.’
Mary nodded once more, and looked down at her infant son, bowing her head and trying her best not to cry. ‘His name is Michael,’ she sobbed, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘His name shall be chosen by his parents,’ said Mrs Blight coldly. ‘And now the issue of our fee?’
‘Of course.’ Mary reached into her purse, taking out a handful of coins and handing them to Mrs Blight. ‘It’s all I have.’
Mrs Blight inspected the money, flaring her nostrils. ‘It’ll do,’ she said. ‘Though Lord knows, for any less I’d have sent you to the workhouse on Cowbridge Road and told you to keep it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mary. Closing her eyes to fight back further tears, she kissed the baby just once on the forehead, stirring him from his slumber, before passing him to Mrs Blight.
Cradling the baby in one arm, Mrs Blight nodded. ‘Good night, Mrs Thomas,’ she said, climbing the steps into the carriage, and closing the door behind her with a loud clunk.
With a crack of his whip, the coach driver turned the carriage, the hooves of the horses clopping and sploshing along the waterlogged street, and they drove off into the night.
Mindless of the rain and the puddles, Mary fell to her knees and wept. She would never see her baby again.
It was all wonderfully gothic, she had decided. The flashes of lightning, the rumbling of thunder, and the ruins of the old house. Rather like a scene by one of the Brontës. Of course, it was hard for Emily Holroyd to imagine the eponymous heroine of Jane Eyre climbing over a wrought-iron fence after nightfall, and all but impossible to picture Wuthering Heights’ Cathy searching for unimaginable monsters and fantastical creatures in the dim glow of a zinc-carbon powered flashlight.
Still, as much as Emily searched, no such creatures or monsters could be found. The grounds of Herbert House, an abandoned edifice on the edges of Crockherbtown, were filled with ferns and ivy and unkempt trees, but little else.
What, then, could have caused Torchwood’s instruments to act so very strangely? Everything about the data collected back at the Hub suggested that the Rift had once again opened, and that something had come through. Emily would take no chances; in one hand she held the torch, the light from which grew fainter by the minute, while in the other she grasped her revolver.
When she had been exploring the ruins for almost an hour, and was close to giving up the search altogether, she came across something quite unexpected.
There, nestled between the tangled, thorny nest of a rosebush and the walls of the old house, was a book. Had the book been there for any length of time, in this weather, she might have expected its pages to be drenched and sodden. Instead, the book was in pristine condition, as if it had been left there only moments ago.
Emily lifted the book, careful not to catch herself or the sleeves of her overcoat on the thorns, and opened it. A small sheet of paper fluttered to the ground, and she bent down to retrieve it.
‘Dear Lord,’ she whispered, as she started to read. ‘I. . .’
But try as she might, there was nothing more to say. She was speechless.
Jack Harkness opened the office door, striding out into the Hub, and Alice Guppy followed.
‘Jack. . . Stop right this instant. That’s an order,’ she said.
Jack turned on his heels. ‘You forget,’ he said, grinning, ‘I’m freelance. I don’t take orders.’
‘More the reason to wait until Emily returns,’ said Alice. ‘That telegram is addressed to her.’
‘And she’s not here,’ said Jack. ‘So I’ll go.’
Sitting at his desk, flicking through the pages of a dossier, Charles Gaskell looked up at them and sighed.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Is our pet freak misbehaving again?’
‘Pet freak?’ said Jack, in a tone of mild outrage. ‘Who’re you calling a pet freak?’
Gaskell raised an eyebrow, and then turned once more to Alice.
‘We’ve received a telegram,’ she explained, ‘addressed to Emily. From some journalist at the Western Mail. William something-or-other.’
‘Mayhew,’ Jack told her. ‘William Mayhew. He wants to meet Emily at the Coliseum Music Hall in Butetown at 9 p.m. Tonight.’
‘And you’re going?’ asked Gaskell.
Jack nodded.
‘I’m not sure Miss Holroyd will be happy about that,’ Gaskell mused. ‘If it’s addressed to her, I mean.’
‘But she’s not here,’ said Jack, ‘and I am. And I don’t see anyone else volunteering to go.’
Gaskell inspected his pocket watch and turned to Alice. ‘It’s almost a quarter to the hour,’ he said, and then to Jack: ‘What does the telegram say, anyhow?’
Jack unfolded the piece of paper and read from it.
‘Please meet at Coliseum Theatre, Butetown, 9 p.m. I shall be wearing white carnation. Balcony row F. Important information re: HMS Hades. Urgent.’
Gaskell sighed. ‘Let him go,’ he said. ‘Anyway. . . Gentleman wearing a white carnation sounds much more like Jack’s kind of liaison than yours or Miss Holroyd’s, if you catch my drift.’
Alice rolled her eyes and shook her head.
Jack turned to Gaskell, smiling. ‘Sure you don’t want to come along?’ he said with a wink.
Gaskell folded his arms, leaning back in his chair, and shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Harkness,’ he said. ‘I’m not really a fan of musical theatre.’
‘Sure about that?’ asked Jack.
‘Yes, Jack,’ Gaskell replied, wearily. ‘No matter how hard you try to convince me otherwise.’
Holding an oil lamp in one hand and fumbling with his keys in the other, Mr Crank, the night porter at the University College, muttered under his breath.
‘What sort of an hour do they call this?’ he grumbled. ‘It’s blowin’ a gale and raining cats and dogs and still there’s somebody knockin’ at the blimmin’ door.’
When he’d finally found the key and unlocked the large wooden door, he was surprised to see, standing on the library steps, a smartly dressed woman carrying a large leather-bound book. She was soaked through from the rain but showed little sign of being in any way distressed, as Mr Crank might have imagined a woman should be, stuck in the rain on her own.
‘Can. . . can I help you?’ he asked, holding up the lamp to get a better look at her.
‘You must let me in,’ replied the woman. ‘My name is Emily Holroyd. I am here on a matter of the utmost urgency, in the name of Her Majesty’s Government.’
Crank chuckled softly to himself. ‘You don’t say?’ he laughed. ‘What is it? Chinese invading, are they? Or maybe the French?’
The young woman shook her head dismissively and pushed her way past Mr Crank.
‘Look here,’ said the old man, flustered. ‘Did I say you could come in?’
She wasn’t listening to him. Ins
tead she was making her way through the labyrinthine walkways of the library, lighting her way with what looked like one of the new-style electrical torches. Mr Crank tried his best to follow, but she was too quick for him.
‘Hang on a minute, Miss,’ he said. ‘This is University property. If the Dean finds out about this, he’ll have my guts for garters. . .’
It was too late. He’d lost her. The ground floor of the library was vast, with too many dark and unknowable corners at this hour of the night. She could be anywhere. His heart began to race, and he found himself short of breath. What if she was a thief? There were volumes in the library worth a small fortune. He could wave goodbye to his pension, that was for sure, not to mention the chances of finding another job anywhere within fifty miles of Cardiff. As panic began to set in, Mr Crank the night porter was startled by the woman’s voice.
‘There,’ she said, appearing at his side and smiling sweetly. ‘All done.’
Mr Crank now noticed that she was no longer carrying the book. Before he could ask her what she had done with it, the woman nodded graciously.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said, walking out into the rain. ‘Good evening.’
And with that, she was gone.
With her face painted white and her cheeks daubed with circles of bright pink, the young woman made her way towards the centre of the stage, a parasol perched daintily on her shoulder. To one side of the stage, the piano player, a Chinese gent in a bowler hat and waistcoat, played the opening chords before she sang:
I’m a young girl, and have just come over,
Over from the country where they do things big,
And amongst the boys I’ve got a lover,
And since I’ve got a lover, why I don’t care a fig. . .
Jack Harkness edged his way through the gloom, down the wooden steps of the balcony until he came to row F. Standing at its edge he saw, in the faint light reflected from the stage, a portly middle-aged man with a white carnation pinned to his lapel. Much to the chagrin of those already seated, Jack shuffled past them and sat down next to him.