The Undertaker's Gift - By Trevor Baxendale Page 0,2

something I don’t know.’

‘All right,’ said Harold, aiming a smoke ring at Gwen.

‘Hey,’ said Gwen, wafting.

Harold’s gaze remained on Jack. ‘They’re planning more than legal action this time, Jack. Hokrala want you by the balls . . .’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘. . . and they’re going to squeeze until you scream.’

‘I can handle the Hokrala Corp lawyers.’

‘Is that a fact? Good for you.’ Harold took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘But I happen to know that they’re planning something a little more fatal than a writ this time. Word is they’ve hired an assassin.’

Jack laughed. ‘An assassin?’

‘Yes. They want you out of the way – permanently.’

‘They’re going to find that a bit difficult,’ mused Gwen.

Harold gave a minute shrug. ‘Please yourselves. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘OK.’ Jack straightened his face and nodded. ‘Thanks for the tip-off. But, really, I think we can handle it.’

Harold sighed theatrically. ‘You always were the glib one, Jack – silver of tongue and pert of cheek. But listen to a word of advice from an old acquaintance.’ He pronounced the word ‘acquaintance’ in a way that quite clearly differentiated it from ‘friend’.

Jack’s eyes narrowed fractionally. He could sense trouble. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know the full details, but I do know that the Hokrala people are worried – very worried – that things are about to go somewhat awry for Earth in the twenty-first century.’

‘Tell them not to worry. We’ve got it covered.’

‘Hmm. Torchwood.’ Harold looked as if he had just licked the bottom of his shoe. ‘Well, that could just be the problem.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Gwen asked.

Harold glanced at her and sniffed, as if he was reluctant to even speak to her. ‘They don’t think Torchwood can handle it.’

‘Handle what?’

‘The twenty-first century.’

‘Hokrala’s beef is with me,’ said Jack, bristling. ‘Hell, they can send their assassin if they want. Good luck to him.’

Harold took a drag on his cigarette and blew a smoke ring at Gwen. ‘Have it your own way, dear boy. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

And with that Harold flicked away the cigarette with a sharp, reptilian movement of his fingers. Gwen watched it land in a flowerbed, and when she looked back Harold had disappeared. Completely.

‘Hey!’ she said.

‘Teleport,’ Jack said, checking the readings on his wrist-strap. He let out a hiss of impatience. ‘Show-off.’

LAST NIGHT

TWO

Rachel ‘Ray’ Banks hurried through the darkened streets of Cardiff. According to her watch it was nearly 4 a.m. There was absolutely no one else about, and the emptiness was starting to creep her out. She stopped at a deserted crossroads. The street lamps were on, the orange sodium glare reflecting on the ice-wet tarmac like night-time mirages. There was no one about. Not a soul. It was as if Ray had the entire city to herself.

It was seriously starting to feel a bit freaky now.

Maybe she should have taken Gillian’s advice and stayed on at the party. At least Ray would have had a place to crash for the night, even if it had meant fending off the more amorous – or drunk – partygoers. And it wasn’t a great sign when even Gillian’s advice sounded good.

‘Don’t tell me you’re going already?’ She recalled Gillian’s aghast expression quite clearly. Ray had explained – as patiently as she could when yelling over Lily Allen’s ‘Not Fair’ at full blast – that she had a lecture first thing in the morning and really ought to be leaving.

‘A lecture?’ Gillian appeared not to understand the word. And she was actually frowning. ‘First thing?’

‘Yes,’ Ray had said. ‘Heath Park at 10.30. I really want to go.’

Gillian now looked shocked. ‘But you can’t go now,’ she screamed. Ray could barely hear her. ‘It’s just getting good. And besides, you don’t want to be walking home alone. That’s not good.’

But Ray had always been strong-willed – some would have said stubborn – and there was nothing more guaranteed to make her do something than somebody telling her not to do it. Her parents had found that out at an early age – which, ultimately, was a good part of the reason why Ray had ended up studying Ecology at Cardiff University rather than working in her mother’s flower shop in Bristol.

She checked her watch again: 4.10 a.m. The streets were still empty, and she stopped to listen carefully. A bus or a taxi would be good right now. In the distance she thought she heard a car engine accelerating away; it sounded like the last person on Earth just leaving.

Alone, cold,