Almost Perfect Part 3

Gwen started to brush herself down. 'Honestly, I just...'

Jack tutted. 'Complete cellular exhaustion. The only thing holding those molecules together was boredom. Just a tiny nudge and...'

Ianto smiled. 'Aw, Gwen, it's made such a mess of your nice trousers.'

Gwen laughed. 'Look at Ianto Jones, criticising my clothes! Fancy that your first b.i.t.c.hy comment. Welcome to the sisterhood.'

Jack looked up from sweeping some dust into an envelope.

'You two aren't going to gang up on me, are you?'

Gwen's mobile rang. Inevitably Rhys. No matter how many times she said 'Please don't call me at work unless another starliner lands in The Hayes, or there's a new Heat Heat with Gavin or Charl looking fat.' with Gavin or Charl looking fat.'

'h.e.l.lo, lover!' he said. 'What's up? Apart from Ianto's cup size.'

Gwen stepped out onto the balcony. It was cold and windy, and she watched the wind blow vital crime-scene evidence off her and into the Bay. Ah well. 'Nothing much. I'm covered in bits of corpse.'

'Eugh!' there was a pause. 'I was eating a doughnut,' said Rhys reproachfully.

'I knew knew you were cheating,' Gwen smiled. Rhys was on another semi-diet, which gave Gwen hours of innocent pleasure. you were cheating,' Gwen smiled. Rhys was on another semi-diet, which gave Gwen hours of innocent pleasure.

'No... not really. Pastries left over after a meeting. Stolen food doesn't count.'

'Really?'

'You've always said so. Anyway, corpse?'

'Yeah.' Gwen did a little relationship maths how much could she tell him against how much would it make her feel better. 'Yeah. Skeleton turned up at a table-for-two.'

'You are kidding! Cla.s.sy!' Rhys sounded worryingly enthusiastic. 'Where?'

'You'll never believe it Abalone's,' said Gwen. Rhys laughed. 'Wouldn't be seen dead in there!'

'Well quite,' said Gwen. 'Poor b.u.g.g.e.r seemed to be on a date.'

'Abalone's. What a way to go. It's only one up from keeling over at the Chinese Buffet. What'll you tell the relatives? Died of shame?'

'Ah,' said Gwen. 'We're still working out who he is. You see, I touched him and he... well, exploded over me...'

There was a dangerous pause, in which Rhys had the chance to say something rea.s.suring. Instead: 'So you're seriously wearing skellington?' Rhys was really amused. More amused than when Gwen had trodden in dog t.u.r.d. Wearing flip-flops. 'Well, mind you have a shower before tonight we're going round to Darren and Sian's. They've got a new pet.'

'What did they choose?' Knowing them it was going to be something fluffy and low maintenance. Their ideal pet would be a spider plant that could purr.

Another laugh from Rhys. 'A rat.'

Gwen squeaked. 'Oh this is the best day ever.'

PATRICK MATTHEWS IS NOT.

DEAD.

Gwen scurried back into Torchwood. She'd nipped out for a sandwich and got soaked. She'd needed a break from combing through interviews with ferry pa.s.sengers and CCTV from the bar. She'd been hoping to come back refreshed. Instead her teeth were chattering.

And there was Ianto. Sat at a desk, looking annoyingly perfect, not a hair out of place.

'You b.l.o.o.d.y cow,' laughed Gwen, dumping her bag on the desk. 'How do you do it? You look... You're not even wearing make-up.'

Ianto shrugged. 'It's getting weird, isn't it? It's like this body can only be pretty.' He pointed to the hair. 'And the hair! It just naturally... bounces into place. I've not even moisturised. This'll take some getting used to.'

'Hey, ladies!' Jack bounded into the office, laying a fond hand on Ianto's shoulder. I bet they're at it like rabbits, thought Gwen. Jack picked up a leaflet on caravanning in the Gower and then favoured them with a wide grin. 'Ianto Jones looking amazing. Gwen Cooper looking damp. Keep it up troops!' They followed him through into Owen's old medical area, where what remains they'd salvaged lay in an untidy heap on a slab.

'I have news about our corpse,' said Ianto. 'His wallet says he's Patrick Matthews. He checks up as living in Adamstown. He's 25. And he's still alive.'

'Really?' Jack looked pleased.

Ianto nodded. 'I went over to his flat. He answered the door. Oddly, I didn't have to think of a cover story. He seemed perfectly happy to chat.' With those knockers, I bet he b.l.o.o.d.y did, thought Gwen. 'Nice bloke, really,' Ianto went on. 'Works in Chippie Alley, moved from Neath. Got a nice car. Very friendly. Even gave me his mobile number but told me it wasn't working. He was off to get a new one, which was why I'd caught him in. Not at all dead in any way.'

'Ah.' Jack held up the corpse's phone. 'I have a theory. Two copies of the same mobile can't function on the same network. You'd need a degree in temporal engineering and a soldering iron to get around it. Dusty the Corpse is from the future.'

Ianto coughed, gently. 'And there's more. I rang the restaurant. Patrick Matthews has booked a table for Sat.u.r.day.'

Jack wore an expression which on any other man would have been embarra.s.sed. 'Tricky. Tricky.' He spread his hands out in a really big shrug. 'We used to hate stuff like this at the Time Agency. We'd have seminars. Really boring seminars. And don't even get me started on the flowcharts.'

'Jack!' Gwen didn't quite shout. 'What do we do? Can we stop this?'

Jack's look turned shifty. 'Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps he does die. Perhaps not. That's the problem. He dies in the future, his corpse turns up here. But if we prevent him from dying what happens? It's a ma.s.sive ticking paradox inches away from a colossal s.p.a.ce-time rift.'

'Are you saying we do nothing?'

'Not... nothing. I'm just saying that we might not be able to do anything. There's two ways of looking at it. And one of them argues that we can spend the rest of the week trying to save Patrick Matthews and somehow, he'll still die. Do we really want to spend the next week in one of those films about doomed teenagers who die with hilarious consequences? Kind of hoped we were cla.s.sier than that.'

Gwen thought about it. Rhys liked Final Destination Final Destination way more than she did. That was a fact. Her left shoe was more wet than her right one. That was also a fact. You couldn't even go out for a meal in Cardiff these days without causing a s.p.a.ce-time paradox. Third fact. Hmm. She glanced at her watch. Not even 7pm. This was turning into another long day. way more than she did. That was a fact. Her left shoe was more wet than her right one. That was also a fact. You couldn't even go out for a meal in Cardiff these days without causing a s.p.a.ce-time paradox. Third fact. Hmm. She glanced at her watch. Not even 7pm. This was turning into another long day.

'Right.' Ianto's voice was soft and echoed across the Hub. 'We've got a week to work out who's going to kill him. Failing that, we just turn up on the night.'

Jack started to open his mouth to argue, but Ianto carried on speaking. 'It's the least we can do. Maybe it's fated that he'll die. But maybe we can find the killer. What does it say about that on your flowcharts?'

Jack spread out his hands helplessly, and for a second looked like a farmboy with a missing cow. 'To be honest, we never got to the end of the flowcharts. They were really big, the print was very small, and most of us were bombed by that point. See what you can find out about him, I guess.'

Later Jack sauntered over to Gwen's desk. They'd spent the last few minutes pretty much not making eye contact. 'So,' he said, 'are we going to have a row about this?'

'I dunno, Jack,' she said. 'I've got a million things on, I'm soaking wet, and I just want to get home, shower and put some warm, dry clothes on.' She managed a weak smile. 'But doing nothing feels... wrong. I want to try.'

'Really?' Jack was looking directly at her, nearly smiling. 'Potential paradoxes are really, really bad. You behave nicely around them, and the universe doesn't end. Trust me I've spent chunks of the last century not b.u.mping into myself. You get a knack for how to behave around paradoxes. Approach them like male models very carefully and only from behind. If we can save him, then we will. But I can't have you following your heart on this one. It'll go horribly, horribly wrong. I need to rely on you to do the right thing.' His smile suddenly flickered on. He sipped his coffee. 'Is it me, or has Ianto's coffee got better since he's a woman?'

And, with that little misdirection, he was gone, bounding back to his desk.

That was b.l.o.o.d.y useless, thought Gwen, miserably. A few rea.s.suring words, a bit of s.e.xy banter, a lot of que sera sera que sera sera. She looked back at the photo of Patrick Matthews floating across her screen. According to his Facebook status, he was booking a holiday. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, thought Gwen.

EMMA WEBSTER IS ATTENDING.

SPEED-DATING IN THE BAY.

Hi, I'm Ross. I'm with the No. Too old.

Hi, I'm Terry. I'm G.o.d, those teeth.

Hi, I'm Roger. By name and t.o.s.s.e.r.

Evening, gorgeous. I'm There is not enough vodka in the world.

Actually. I'm fed up of all of them. Can you make them go away?

An hour later the phone call came in.

'A bar full of skeletons?' said Jack.

TOMBOLA'S IS THE IDEAL VENUE FOR YOUR NEXT PARTY.

Tombola's was one of those places. It was hard to see why anyone would go there for a drink unless it was for a reason. It wasn't a bar you'd drop in on. The brewery were baffled. Clearly, the architect had put a lot of work in, and the decor was very nice quite modern, quite cla.s.sy, quite solid wood and cosy bunk beds. The beers were nice, the food wasn't bad, the music wasn't offensive. It was all very safe and ordinary and the folk of Cardiff avoided it like the plague. Which meant it was easy to book it for a function so it was popular with book groups, societies, and so on.

It had needlessly roped off an area for speed-dating. The area was full of corpses. All dressed up. All ready to go. All dead.

'Well, they're all men. I think we're looking for a woman.' Jack smiled. 'Forget Mister Right we're looking for Miss Wrong.' He stuck his hands on his hips and grinned broadly.

Jack Harkness, thought Gwen, I love you, but sometimes, you can be very hard work.

An hour later and they'd managed to collect twelve wallets and mobiles and only destroyed two bodies. Miraculously, Ianto had managed to avoid getting any of the dust on him. Whereas Gwen was caked in dead people. She was mentally rehearsing comebacks for any witty comments that Rhys might manage when she finally staggered in. But that wasn't going to be for a long time.

Ianto confirmed there wasn't any CCTV footage. 'But, interesting development the place was booked for speed-dating. And, as far as anyone can tell, this was it. The bar staff agree that everything was going on very much as normal, and then... all of a sudden... this.'

'Yeah, but that's stupid,' said Gwen, a little harsher than she'd intended. 'There are twelve men here. Where are the women? You don't just get one woman it's normally a group. Fuelled on zambuca and desperation.'

Ianto reached into a large pink rucksack and pulled out a scanner which he ran over each of the bodies. 'Nothing,' he said. 'No abnormal emissions, no radiation traces. Slightly elevated static electricity.'

'Really?' said Jack.

'Yes. Twenty-three per cent. Same as over the rest of town.'

'Oh.'

'Right. This is peculiar.' Ianto was scanning the room. He shrugged, which pushed back the straps on his shoulders. 'No... something's odd here. Each skeleton... it's... perfect. Full set of teeth. No bones broken. Great posture. No fillings.'

Gwen laughed. 'Twelve Welsh men without a single filling?' The skeletons sat at various tables across the room, all in postures of polite attention.

'So,' said Jack slowly. 'Apart from the mysteriously vanishing women, someone is taking men, making them physically perfect, then killing them?'

'Don't forget about sending the odd one back through time,' put in Ianto.

'Marvellous.'

BREN IS VERY PRECISE.

It had been a long, long night, thought Ianto, but he had one thing more to do.

He was walking down St Mary Street. It was raining, but Cardiff was in full party mood. Tight hunting packs of single men, pumped arms and white shirts, strode past. Little groups of women stood queuing sulkily outside clubs. Everywhere were bouncers, flyer girls, and police just, you know, waiting.

And it was freezing. Last time he was out on the lash he'd been wearing a duffle coat. Now all he had to keep the elements at bay was a mini-skirt, a pair of tights and a light denim jacket. The rain was slicing through him. He was dying with each step.

Around him were girls wearing less and laughing more.

A gust of icy breeze lifted his skirt, and he heard some men across the street make a 'Woooooo!' noise. He glanced across at them, and they barked back.

Ianto cursed under his breath and carried on walking. 'Lovely night for a spot of MurderRape.' He got stopped briefly by an enormous queue outside a club. He stood there for a bit, trying not to jostle, sensing the ogling glances of the men, and the strange, jealous glares of the women.

A meaty hand landed on his arm. 'Aw, not going home already, luv, are we?' A boy's voice, rough and slurred, sweet with beer, too close to his ear.

Ianto nodded. 'I've got a boyfriend, sorry,' he said quickly, and carried on walking.

All around him was noise and screaming, and empty gla.s.s bottles and rain, and the greasy smell of kebabs and p.i.s.s. By the time he found the chip shop he was looking for, he was fed up and dripping, and he pushed gratefully inside, past a sign advertising curry with half and half. The shop stank of salt and vinegar and comfort. He shivered and made his way through the quiet crowd to the counter.

The shop was busy, as ever, the windows fogged up couples sharing chips and sauce on the tiny lean-to formica counters, tight huddles of lads arguing over their orders, quiet groups of drunk girls, nudging and waiting and texting and stabbing at their chips with dainty mini-forks. And just one tiny little old lady behind the counter doing everything. Bren was a Cardiff inst.i.tution, and a personal hero of Ianto's she was more organised and placid than he was. He just saved the world on a regular basis but she kept order in St Mary Street on a party night. To the best of his knowledge, no one had ever had it large in Brenda's.

She barely peered at him through her enormous fishbowl spectacles, waiting patiently for his order.

'Aw, h.e.l.lo, Bren,' said Ianto, cheered to see a familiar face, 'How are you?'

She fixed him with a sudden razor gaze. 'I don't know you, dear,' she said, quite certain of it.

'No, sorry,' said Ianto, slightly crestfallen. 'I'm actually looking for Patrick.'

Bren held his gaze ever so firmly. 'He's out the back, luv, doing the batter.' She leant back and raised her voice delicately. 'Lady for you, Pat.' And then Ianto was swept aside in favour of Vimto and a saveloy.