Trace Memory t-5 Page 9

  'Yes,' said Jack. 'I'm thinking maybe it was the effect the Rift had on the Orb. Rift energy and tachyon radiation are like opposing magnets; push them together and one gets forced out. That's why the Rift's been so quiet today. When the Orb exploded, Michael received a massive dose of tachyon radiation. The Vondrax can control the effects it has, but Michael… He has no say in it.'

  'And these Vondrax…' said Toshiko. 'When I was a child, there was… there was this man… in a bowler hat…'

  Jack nodded gravely.

  He was sitting on a wooden chair, in a white room with black curtains, talking — or rather listening — to another doctor. To Michael, it seemed he had spent his whole life being flung from hospital to hospital, each one stranger than the last, talking to doctors.

  This latest one, an Indian woman with greying hair and a broach the shape of a lizard on the lapel of her jacket, was called Dr Hawoldar. She asked him where he lived and, when he gave her his address, one of the men from the ambulance said something about his street being demolished in the 1970s to 'make way for flats'. Michael started to laugh.

  Dr Hawoldar asked him what was so funny, and Michael told her that he didn't know, that he didn't know anything any more.

  'Everything is like dreaming,' he said.

  'But why is he being dragged into our pasts?' asked Ianto. 'Why us?'

  'We've been working in the same building as this thing for how long now?' Jack asked, tapping the ball again. 'It's broken, and most of its radiation got soaked up by Michael in the explosion, but there was still some residual radiation left in it. Close proximity to the ball, not to mention Michael, has left us all dosed with tachyon radiation. Once you've been dosed, you're always dosed — not just in the future, but in your past.'

  Toshiko was on her feet now, and walking toward the table and the Orb. 'This just doesn't make any sense to me,' she said, looking down at the engraved surface of the Orb and the gaping, molten rupture in its side. 'This thing, can do all that? With a kind of radiation I've never heard of…'

  'It's Clark's Third Law,' said Jack, raising one eyebrow and grinning.

  'OK,' said Gwen, 'so assuming that this is what you say it is, and Michael really is bouncing around in time, what can we do? For Michael, I mean.'

  Jack sat on the edge of the table and shook his head. 'Nothing,' he said pensively. 'There's nothing we can do.'

  'You don't know that,' said Gwen.

  'No, Gwen,' said Jack, walking towards the Boardroom. 'I do.'

  From the white room, he was taken to a ward in the hospital where there were many beds, and in each bed a patient. Each man's face was a mask of bewilderment or suffering, as if they were a Greek chorus of agony. Some of them were moaning, or laughing to themselves. One man was screaming. One man was singing.

  The orderlies lifted Michael out of the wheelchair and lowered him onto the hard mattress of a narrow bed. He lay there for what seemed an age before Dr Hawoldar came back to him.

  'Great news, Michael,' she said. 'We've just received a call from your doctor at the Torchwood Institute.'

  He knew the name, but where did he know it from?

  Torchwood.

  He saw it as the image of a word stencilled on a wooden panel.

  'Torchwood?' Michael asked. He could hear himself slurring.

  'That's right,' said Dr Hawoldar. 'They said they've been very worried about you. You won't be staying here too long. One of your doctors will be here shortly.'

  'When?' Michael asked.

  'Soon,' said Dr Hawoldar. 'You should be back at Torchwood by three. That'll be better, won't it? Back at Torchwood with all your friends?'

  Dr Hawoldar left him alone on the ward again, alone that is apart from his fellow patients, and Michael began to panic. His breathing grew heavier, and he felt his pulse begin to quicken. Torchwood. He knew the name Torchwood. He heard the growl of the car's engine as it chased him along West Bute Street; he saw an underground room filled with what looked like televisions, and the chrome base of an enormous water tower. He saw a great glass tower, like an obelisk, and a shattered mirror.

  Around him, the other patients were laughing, all of them pointing at him and laughing, as if they all understood something that he didn't. Then they stopped, quite abruptly, and, as if choreographed in some way, they turned to face the far end of the ward. There, in the aisle between the hospital beds, stood three identical men, each wearing sunglasses, bowler hats and black suits and carrying umbrellas. The three men looked at Michael and smiled, each revealing teeth like hundreds of needles.

  'The Traveller…' they said in unison.

  That was when Michael woke up.

  'It's OK,' said Jack. 'It's OK. You were having a nightmare.'

  They were alone in the Boardroom.

  'You,' said Michael. 'You were in that room. When I came here. You knew my name. Who are you?'

  'I'm Jack Harkness,' Jack said, looking away into the far corner of the room.

  'It wasn't a nightmare,' said Michael. 'It was something else. I saw things… It was like I was seeing things that haven't happened yet.'

  'It's OK,' said Jack again. 'You're here now. You're safe.'

  Michael looked down and realised that Jack was holding his hand. He quickly pulled away, and looked Jack in the eye.

  'I'm sorry,' said Jack. 'I didn't mean to…'

  'Why do you look at me like that?' said Michael.

  'Like what?'

  'Like you know me. Like…' Michael trailed off and looked away from Jack, as if embarrassed. 'Like you've always known me.'

  Jack stood and walked over to the far corner of the Boardroom. He could hardly bear to look at him any more. How much time did they have left? How much longer before Michael would be taken away?

  'I'm sorry,' said Jack, 'I didn't mean to… I mean'

  'No, it's OK,' said Michael. 'I feel like I know you, but I don't. I remember things that haven't happened yet, and I'm forgetting the things that have. I don't know what's real any more.'

  Jack returned to him, and held Michael's hand once more. This time Michael didn't pull away.

  'This is real,' said Jack, squeezing his hand and smiling.

  'Here, now. And while you're here, you're safe, with me.'

  'What happens to me, Jack?' asked Michael, his eyes filling with tears. 'What happens?'

  TEN

  The drugs were still coursing through his veins when he came to his senses in the centre of a large loading bay, surrounded by crates and metal containers. Those senses were dulled, but he was still able to get to his feet. The feeling of disorientation passed, and slowly he began to reassemble everything that had just happened to him. There had been Japan, and the monster in the bowler hat, and then the Cardiff he didn't recognise, and the two police officers, and then the injection, and the hospital, and that name…

  Torchwood.

  The Indian doctor had left him alone, and then… and then… What?

  Michael looked around at the crates and the containers, and at the yellow and black striped markings on the floors.

  The loading bay was empty. The Indian doctor had said the name Torchwood, and then he had seen them, the men in bowler hats. They were coming for him, he knew that much and, as they walked towards him, hissing and snarling, he had been sent reeling by a violent spasm of pain, and then everything had stopped, and he had felt himself surrounded by light, before waking here.

  He thought of it as waking, but how could it be waking when he hadn't slept? And yet every time it had happened that's exactly how it felt, as if everything that had gone before, from his childhood to the arrival of the crate in Tiger Bay, had been a dream.

  Michael had taken no more than four steps across the loading bay when the alarm sounded, and a voice said: 'Code 200, Loading Bay 5.'

  The fluorescent strip lights in the loading bay powered down, leaving just flickering orange beacon lights to illuminate the vast space like a dozen fiery strobes. The voice spoke again: 'Code
200, Loading Bay 5.'

  At either end of the loading bay, roll doors suddenly flew open, spilling white light in across the darkness, and soldiers in arctic camouflage and black berets swept in, brandishing sub-machine guns.

  'Don't move!' a voice yelled angrily. 'Keep your hands above your head, and do not move!'

  They were getting closer now, the men with their guns, and Michael followed their orders, putting his hands in the air like he'd seen so many thieves and gangsters do in black and white films.

  The red spots of laser sights bunched together like angry suns on Michael's face and chest, and he was blinded by the lights before somebody, one of the soldiers, struck him across the back of the head with the butt of their rifle.

  When he came to, everything was dark. There was cloth over his face, a hood perhaps, and he was sitting, strapped into a chair. He tried to free himself but couldn't. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing.

  The hood was taken away suddenly, and the shock of light meant he could barely make out the soldier who was now leaving the room, closing the door behind him with a loud slam.

  It was a small, windowless room with a high ceiling. Fixed into an adjacent wall there was a wide mirror, and in every upper corner what looked like small cameras of some sort, mounted on brackets. Michael was sat at a table, and multicoloured wires were stuck to his chest and scalp. He could see a single, featureless grey door in the opposite wall.

  His head still throbbed with pain but he could remember what had happened. The hospital, and then the jump; finding himself in a loading bay, and the men with guns.

  Michael looked up at one of the cameras, and he saw it move slightly to point straight at him. Within seconds, the door opened, and two soldiers walked in, followed by a bald man in a white lab coat. The soldiers stood in each corner of the room, their guns aimed squarely at Michael's head, as the bald man approached him.

  'Good morning. My name is Dr Frayn. Could you tell us your name?' he asked.

  'I'm not telling you anything,' said Michael. 'Not until you tell me why you're treating me like this. Who are you?'

  'Mm,' said Dr Frayn. 'British accent. Twenty, maybe twenty-five years old. All readings say human.' He huffed, and began circling the table at which Michael sat. 'EEG and heart rate picking up a certain degree of discomfort. Aggression levels low, but rising. Fear levels high. Nothing to suggest abnormal strength.'

  'Who are you?' Michael shouted, but the bald man ignored him.

  'Some readings picking up a low-resonance electromagnetic pulse. Awaiting tech-team evaluation. X-rays picked up a fractured rib. No irregularities in organic or genetic make-up. Blood type B. A smoker. Minor traces of alcohol present in blood stream. Cholesterol levels low.'

  'Please, just tell me where I am,' said Michael, sobbing now. 'I just want to know where I am.'

  'Subject shows signs of disorientation, possibly concussion. Slight bruising on left side of face, confirmed as result of blow to the head. No other injuries resulting.'

  Now Frayn faced him directly, and smiled, but there was something mechanical and cold about the expression.

  'Can you remember how you got here?' he asked.

  'It was the crate,' said Michael, still crying. 'I work at the docks. That's all I do. I work at the docks, and there was a crate. It blew up. The others…'

  He looked away from Dr Frayn to the mirror on the wall. He barely recognised himself. How long had he been travelling? How long had this been going on? Days, perhaps? And yet, to him, it felt like an eternity. Time had no meaning any more.

  'Tell us your name,' said Frayn, his voice a curious mixture of interrogation and concern. 'Tell us your name, then we can help you.'

  'Michael,' he replied. 'Michael Bellini.'

  Dr Frayn turned to the soldiers.

  'I think that's enough for now,' he said. 'Put the hood on him again, and somebody give Bev Stanley a wake-up call. This is her watch from now on.'

  Michael struggled against the restraints, throwing his head from side to side, in the seconds before his world was plunged into darkness once more.

  In the darkness and seclusion, it was easy to lose track of time. He tried to count the seconds and then make a mental note of the minutes, but it was no good. He could have been alone in that room for minutes, or hours. It made no difference.

  When the hood was lifted again, he saw a smartly dressed woman with shoulder-length black hair and a smile that looked forced.

  'Hello, Michael,' she said. 'I'm Bev Stanley. I'm the manager here at Information Retrieval. Basically, I'm just here to brief you on why we are holding you, and looking at what efforts can be made, going forward, to resolve your issue.'

  What did any of these words mean? What was she talking about?

  Bev Stanley sat in the chair opposite and opened a large folder out onto the table. 'Now it says here that you were found in Loading Bay 5 at around ten minutes past five last night. Is that right?'

  Michael shrugged. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I was in a big room. It… It might have been that place you just said. I don't know.'

  'OK,' said Bev Stanley. 'It says here you've been gone since 1967. Is that right?'

  Michael stopped breathing. What was that supposed to mean? What happened in 1967?

  'No?' said Bev, sensing his confusion. 'That doesn't mean anything to you? 1967?'

  'How could it?' said Michael. 'What are you talking about?'

  'Now, Mr Bellini, there really is no need for you to raise your voice. As I said, we are simply trying to resolve this issue. It says here that you were involved in the Hamilton's Sugar incident in 1967? I can only go by what it says in our files.'

  'Well I wasn't,' said Michael.

  'OK,' said Bev. 'Could you state your date of birth?'

  'First of April 1929,' said Michael.

  And who is the Prime Minister?' she asked.

  'Winston Churchill,' he replied. He was getting sick of being asked that question.

  And your current address?'

  'Number 6, Fitzhamon Terrace, Butetown, Cardiff.'

  Bev made notes and then began reading from a printed memo. 'OK,' she said, 'I am obliged to inform you that your rights as a civilian have been withdrawn in accordance with International Security Protocol 49 and, as such, we are allowed to hold you here to assist us with our enquiries for as long as is deemed necessary. Your circumstances being as they are, you do not qualify for such terms as outlined in the European Convention on Human Rights or the 1998 Human Rights Act. While our medical team has designated you as Human, your-' she squinted at the piece of paper she had before her '- apparent temporal displacement renders any such rights null and void.' Still reading, she added, 'We apologise sincerely for any inconvenience this may have caused you, and hope to resolve the matter as soon as possible.'

  She folded the piece of paper and returned it to the folder, offering him one more smile before she left the room.

  He was alone in the room for several hours before anyone else came to see him, hours in which he had little to do but think. He struggled to remember a time before any of this started, the times when he, Hassan, Frank and Wilf would go to the Ship and Pilot after a day's work and laugh at dirty jokes, but the memories were still there. Sometimes, somebody would play the piano and they would sing, or some poor sod would have one too many and knock a table over on their way out, and the whole pub would cheer. Sometimes Wilf's wife would come into the pub, still wearing her slippers, and physically grab him by the ear and drag him home for dinner.

  It had been a tough life with long hours, but he had been happy. He wasn't worried about settling down, especially not with Maggie Jenkins. What rush was there? He was happy doing what he was doing, and right now he'd have given everything he had to sit in the Ship and Pilot and hear his friends sing.

  Now he wondered whether he was still alive. At first, everything had seemed like a dream, or rather a nightmare, but now, now that he knew this wasn't a dream, it felt lik
e death, or how he imagined death might feel. Was this Hell?

  He hadn't been to Confession in a long time; at least since his father died. Was this his punishment? All the sinful thoughts he'd had, all the times he'd sworn, the times he'd been angry with God as he saw his father sink into the bottom of a bottle of Bells, or when his Aunty Megan had told him that his mother was in Heaven now. When life had stopped making so much sense he'd forgotten about church altogether. Was this his sentence?

  Perhaps he hadn't survived the explosion. Perhaps, like the others, he had been killed, and this was a Hell designed especially for him. A Hell in which everyone was cruel and uncaring and spoke nonsense, and demons with bowler hats terrorised young children. It even crossed his mind that he might spend eternity in that room, no longer than ten feet and no wider than six — an eternity strapped into a chair, alone.

  One thing he knew for sure, if there was any chance of getting out of this barren, soulless place, was that he was tired of running. He'd tired, already, of being afraid, and of running away from things he didn't understand. If he could only get out of this chair and this room he was going to fight back. He was going to find out all about Torchwood, and about the men in bowler hats, and he was going to fight them with every drop of strength he could muster.

  His thoughts were interrupted, suddenly, by the opening of the door, and the appearance of a man he recognised, only now he was so much older.

  Cromwell.

  'Michael,' he said, shuffling into the room, bracing himself against his walking stick. 'Michael Michael Michael… It's been so many years.'

  A uniformed guard entered the room, pulling out the spare chair, and Cromwell sat down.

  'Old legs not as strong as they used to be,' he said, smiling softly. 'And no space on the helicopter to stretch them, either. Bumpy ride too, choppers. Never liked them. Like sitting inside a cocktail shaker. It was so much better when you could catch the train.'

  He sighed, and took off his trilby, dabbing at his now crinkled forehead with a handkerchief.

  'Michael,' he said, smiling, 'I'd begun to think we wouldn't see you again. You've been quite the will-o'-the-wisp for us, really you have. We almost caught up with you a few years back, in Cardiff, so I'm told. They sent somebody to the hospital where they were keeping you, but then you were gone. Done a Houdini. Strapped into a bed, and yet somehow you vanished like a puff of smoke. Most impressive. How long ago was that, now?'