The Undertaker's Gift - By Trevor Baxendale Page 0,1

emerged. The linen fell away to reveal something only vaguely humanoid, covered in flesh like black rubber. The only discernible feature was a suppurating red orifice in the centre of its head. The assembled mourners groaned with revulsion as the hole puckered open to reveal a ring of jagged teeth.

‘So I’m afraid it’s hello and goodbye,’ said Jack, drawing his Webley revolver and shooting the thing through the centre of its head. Mutant brain matter sprayed across the grave, and the corpse fell back into the coffin with a heavy thud.

For a moment all that could be heard was the echo of the shot rolling around the cemetery and the harsh, excited cries of the rooks that had flown out of nearby trees in shock.

Then silence.

‘Bloody Torchwood,’ said the vicar, taking off his glasses to wipe specks of alien goo from the lenses.

Ianto stepped forward, gently offering the deceased’s mother a glass of water. He had seemingly conjured the glass out of thin air. It was a skill that only the very best butlers could master, as Jack would often point out. He loved to tease.

‘Here,’ Ianto urged softly. ‘Drink this.’

Stunned into acquiescence, Mrs Greenway sipped the water. ‘That wasn’t Tommy,’ she muttered, dazed. ‘That wasn’t my Tommy . . .’

‘Of course it wasn’t,’ Ianto assured her.

‘Wh-what was it?’

‘Allow me to explain.’ He led her away from the grave towards the rest of the mourners. The water was laced with Retcon. Ianto was highly skilled in the art of proffering reasonable explanations for unreasonable incidents, and he had a box of the little white pills in his coat pocket. There would be quite a few people needing a drink and an explanation right now.

Gwen had been left with the umbrella. She stood with Jack at the graveside and looked down at the crumpled heap in the coffin. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,’ she said. ‘And I suppose that’s probably a good thing.’

‘It is,’ Jack confirmed. ‘I’ve stood by way too many gravesides. And I’ve been in a few. It never gets any easier.’

There was a disturbing, faraway look in his eyes. Gwen had seen that look before. She thought of Tosh and Owen, and guessed that Jack had stood over the graves of a great many Torchwood operatives in his time – colleagues and friends, and probably lovers as well. Gwen wondered if he would end up standing by her grave one day. And when she caught the desolate expression in those clear blue eyes as they turned to look at her, she knew he was wondering the same thing.

Gwen struggled for a way to change the subject and found, with relief, that there was something to change it for her. On the far side of the cemetery, ghost-like in the shadow of the slender birches that circled the graveyard, was a thin, dark figure in a long coat. He looked very pale, and he was watching them carefully. Gwen touched Jack’s arm. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Trouble,’ said Jack, following her gaze.

The spectral figure waited for them to join him beneath the trees. Gwen had mistaken him for another mourner, or perhaps the driver of the hearse – his long, buttoned coat stretched down to his ankles, and he was wearing black gloves. But, close up, Gwen realised that he was not even human. He was preternaturally thin, the skin of his face was as white as chalk, and he was completely hairless. He had grey eyes with vertical pupils and nictitating eyelids. The lips were white, the interior of his mouth blue-black when he spoke.

‘Jack!’ he hissed by way of greeting. It sounded like an expletive.

‘Do you two know each other?’ asked Gwen, slightly irritated by the way the alien was pointedly ignoring her. His goat-like eyes were fixed only on Jack. Nothing unusual there, she supposed.

‘Gwen Cooper, meet Harold.’

Gwen blinked. ‘Hello, Harold.’

The alien ignored her.

‘I don’t know his real name,’ Jack confessed. ‘So I call him Harold. He prefers to remain incognito.’

‘I come with a warning,’ Harold said, somewhat portentously. He raised a gloved hand to his lips and Gwen was not in the least surprised to see that it held a cigarette. He took a long drag and then blew smoke out through his aquiline nose. ‘Your old friends from Hokrala Corp are on the warpath again.’

Jack shrugged. ‘I know all about them, Harold. They’ve been coming here every year since the turn of the century, trying to land a writ on me. Tell me