Mitchell sat on the bed of his one room
flat under the arch of the old railway bridge.
He lived in the only habitable property alongside several dilapidated
buildings due for demolition. Rats and
other vermin scurried in the lofts, heard at night from the bed below. A bed he was now sitting on staring at his
hands bound by tape, covering the knuckles red and split. His face was a mish mash of bruises and cuts
and his body in general had seen better days, in fact he could count on the
fingers of his left hand, if he could bend the fingers on his left hand, that
the last time he’d felt this bad, he’d been facing three lads from the care
home at the age of ten, who had double dared him to steal Magnus Greer’s pocket
watch from the tweed coat at the back of the door, while the old guy was still
in the room. He’d refused of course, he
liked old Greer, he didn’t however like the three lads, so they beat the hell
out of him. That night, he’d run away.
In the time he’d lived rough, he’d
survived on his wits, he’d stolen to get by, nothing big, nothing too much,
nothing that would get him noticed, nothing until the businessman who stood
with his back to him, talking into the expensive phone, hand on his hip, card
still in the ATM machine. Perhaps it was
a dare, true Mitchell hadn’t eaten anything substantial in a few days, and he
could do with an upgrade of clothing. The ones he stood up in, were less than
appealing to those around him, he could do with a bath, a shave, it was about
time he looked at least somewhere near respectable, especially since he’d been
seeing a girl. Lexy.
Lexington Barlow to give her full title,
or Dr. Lexington Barlow to be absolutely precise, and she liked to be
absolutely precise in everything she did, wasn’t much older than Mitchel
herself. Although she didn’t look it. Dressed
in her high class clothes, she was really out of his league, and let’s be fair,
it was more like Lady and the Tramp, than Boy Meets Girl.
Mitchell was going on
twenty four, Lexy was coy about her age, and with good reason to. He wanted to
take her out, he couldn’t bring her back to the flat, he couldn’t show her the
bed he’d slept in and not changed the sheets, correction sheet, and knowing
what girls were like, even absolutely precise ones, the bloody great big hairy,
scary as you like spider perched on the ceiling with the stealth action of a
ninja, poised ready to leave go of the sticky residue that belonged to the last
owner - who smoked, didn’t bear thinking about.
No, he wanted to take her out, somewhere posh, something a little
upmarket, something that didn’t have the words ‘and chips’ at the end of it. So,
he had no choice really, it was either go without, or go with Lexy to somewhere
that sold food without the ‘and chips’ and it would mean taking that card, and
running with it. So he did.
Mitchell half expected the pounding feet
of an angry businessman behind him, but he either hadn’t noticed, or he had and
would deal with him in some other way, but without the card, and without
knowing who the hooded person desperate to take out a ‘proper lady’ was, he was
safe, for now.
It was six weeks later when the owner of
the card paid him a visit, with two very large, stocky gentlemen of few words
but with sausage like fingers, and hams for fists, who pummelled the hell out
of him, while the businessman, a Mr. Alex Shepperton, tall, influential, very
English, very determined, and with a multi million pound office complex at his
disposal, wealthy, but still with priorities, and one of them was being dealt
with harshly in the waste ground, a mile and a half from the ATM machine, watched.
‘I’ve spent it.’ Mitchell winced, struggling
as he was to muster the breath to speak.
‘You’ve spent MY money, on what?’ Shepperton stared at the boy on the ground,
in the new designer jeans, with the decorative stitching, the new trainers,
broken in, a warm fleece zipped hoodie and cotton shirt, dirty from the
ground. Shepperton squatted beside the
boy still on his side clutching his cracked ribs and glared darkly at Mitchell.
Alex himself was not an old man, but he
was older than Mitchell by a good ten years.
He knew what it was like to struggle, what it was like to starve, but
he’d had the good wit to do something about it. He’d gone to school, learnt a trade, begged
and borrowed, did deals, did people over, stole from people, bigger people,
bigger fish, because if he wanted something so badly, he quite often got it,
and that was why he was much better than the boy on the ground. Alex was a survivor.
‘You have spent £5,000 of my money?’ He straightened up and nodded to the two
bouncers who hauled up Mitchell and kept hold of him so that Alex could study
him face to face. They were the same height, but Mitchell was lithe and
athletic. At 6 feet 1, and in the right clothes, Alex could see a future for
the lad, but that would come, he’d mused.
‘You’re going to pay it back, every last
penny, d’ya hear me?’
Mitchell lifted his head and stared at the
olive skinned man before him, hair immaculate and greased back with hair oil,
something he’d remembered from the care home that old Greer had used. Alex was
a city boy, wore a three piece suit, striped, pocket watch, almost looked out
of his time, but his skin was soft and supple, and there wasn’t a hair out of
place. He reminded Mitchell of the
cartoon characters in the sci fi comic book back at the home, with the shiny
black hair of the villains, the backdrop of a million dollar business behind
them, and he wasn’t far wrong. This man oozed wealth, even the cologne he wore
and the shirt on his back would be more than the price of a meal at Moriarty’s,
where he’d taken Lexy on their first proper date.
‘How can I pay it back, I don’t have a job.’ Mitchell winced in his soft Californian
accent, practiced from years of watching American tv.
‘You’ll work for me.’
‘And if I refuse.’
Alex nodded to the brute to his left, who
turned to face Mitchell and landed a punch so hard that it felt as if his guts
were pinned to his spine. Mitchell
doubled up, the searing pain through his body, the fear of never breathing
again, he was certain he could taste blood in his mouth. The brutes held on to him, even as his legs
buckled, and Alex gripped his hair and yanked it back, his own face pressing up
close and menacing, his white teeth showing against Mitchell’s suntanned skin.
‘I will find you, and I will break
every-single-bone-in your body, is that clear?’
Alex snarled. Mitchell nodded
painfully.
And that was it, the deal had been done,
and now sitting in his flat, with the hairy scary ninja spider, he waited for
the call from Alex.
Captain Jack Harkness glanced up towards
the building on Park Street and squinted against the glare of the sunlight
bouncing off the panes of glass.
‘Are you sure about this Gwen?’
‘Andy knows this bloke who is leasing office
space, we’d have enough room for what we need and more besides...’ Gwen stood with her back to the Millennium Stadium
building, eyes darting back and forth.
‘I don’t know Gwen.’ Jack lowered his gaze.
‘You don’t think it’s a little pretentious?’ He turned to face her, the
beautiful feisty Welsh woman who had lost nothing of her fiery passion for
everything Torchwood, even if it had meant living in hiding since she and Rhys
had returned from the States. She looked
at Jack, the man she’d walk over hot coals for, the man she believed in above
all others, aside from Rhys, her long suffering husband.
Gwen raised a brow as the wind lifted her
hair and cast it in front of her face.
‘Jack, we used to have a base below the
water tower, this at least offers us a better outlook and windows and not to
mention a very high roof for you to survey all that you own, probably.’
‘Yeah
you’re probably right. So who is it I have to talk to again?’
‘Sol Evans.’
She replied stepping towards him, towards the double glass doors that
led the way to reception and 17 floors of office space, switchboards, typing
pools and large board rooms, all the kinds of places she’d never, ever desired
to work in. And now, after deciding that
the human race was still worth fighting for, even if the Rift showed little
desire to open up, there was still a need for Torchwood, even if it did come
from the mouth of a Sgt of the Cardiff Constabulary.
Alex Shepperton, his hands in his trouser
pockets, jacket over the back of his chair, shirt sleeves down, even while the
room temperature sat at just above regular and the sun beat a heavy fist
against the pane he stared out from, pondered at the city below him. It had been six months since he’d had
Mitchell beaten up in the disused playground the other side of the church spire
that he could see to his left. A week
after he’d got him a job running errands, and run them he did. Packages here and there, messages, money
collections, the boy was good, he’d work because he knew the boys would break
his legs, beat him till he begged for death; that’s how he trained them, the
thugs were no good to him if they were lenient, that showed a weakness, and Alex
was far from weak.
Alex had discovered that the boy Mitchell
was good with computers and put him to work on the security of his office,
someone within his company was trading secrets and he wanted to find the leak. He had his suspicions, he’d had them for a
while, but he had no proof, until now.
It wasn’t unknown that Alex would buy anything if the deal was good
enough, or if he wanted something that wasn’t for sale, he’d make a few
enquiries and do a little research on the owner, pull a few strings, and take
from the person while they were being carted off to prison, for the money
laundering services he’d despatched Mitchell to deliver, or the illegal
immigrants another had been using, and all the while the trophy got ever
closer.
Now there was a new game, a new trophy,
but the target was harder to acquire, it required much thought and it required
a serious amount of careful planning. In the heart of the English countryside,
in a bunker hidden from view and prying eyes, a space ship was moored by ropes
and locked down in a secret facility, manned by many hundreds of soldiers. But someone had leaked information on what
kind of ship it was, and in the government houses across the water, where deals
of the utmost urgency were often discussed, a minister for the defence of the
realm had the secret blueprint of the Arakian spaceship in his possession. The Arakian Spaceship that had crashed
through Earth’s orbit and ploughed up some very expansive arable farmland in
the heart of England.
Mr. Reuben Jacobs was a middle-aged man,
average build, bit of a beer gut, very dedicated to his job but had one chink
in his armour. Alex smiled broadly.
Mitchell pushed open the hard wood door to
his flat, dropped his keys on the counter by the window and placed the
polystyrene box on his bed as he slipped off his shoes, shrugged off his coat
and flopped down.
‘Wolf, I have to tell you, that I really wish
I hadn’t stolen that card. That man has
had me working like a dog.’ He flipped
open the polystyrene box and smiled at the half-eaten chicken portion and a few
chips, along with a broken cigarette and flecks of ash. Mitchell picked out the cigarette and
discarded it.
‘No offence by the way.’ He tossed a few
chips to the wolf, which as soon as Mitchell had entered the flat, had showed
an interest in the boy and watched him from beside the open kitchen
cupboard. Mitchell noticed.
‘I hope you’re hungry.’ He tore the chicken bone in half, and tossed
one half to the wolf who took it gratefully. Wiping the greasy hand on the
bedding, Mitchell tore into the meat and ate it grateful that people nowadays
bought more than they could physically eat.
Wolf ate slowly, for a wolf that is. He
took his time, picking over the meat, tearing it from the bone. Then broke the
chicken leg and crunched into it, sucking down the cooked marrow. It wasn’t the
best meal, but he knew he’d find more when he went out after the boy was asleep. But it was good to hear him talk; good to
hear about his day, given that before he worked for Alex, all he heard was the
good Dr’s name and more often than he should.
Wolf had found Mitchell on the day he
arrived in London. He’d known about him
in the children’s home, but dogs or even wolves were not allowed in the house. But
Mitchell was safe in the home, and so taking a break from the care of the boy,
had gone in search of enlightenment, or in wolf terms had gone to find himself. When news of Mitchell’s break for freedom had
reached his ears, he knew he couldn’t risk losing sight of his charge again and
following the trail, had followed him to the big smoke.
Old man Greer, with the tweed jacket, had
taught Mitchell about the wild, how to survive when there was little food, how
to make safe a trap, a snare, how to get himself out of scrapes, how to fight
and more importantly how to read and sense trouble, even before it arrived.
‘You have to learn the old ways Mitchell,
one day, you might find them useful.’ Old Greer had told him as they walked
back through the hay field, after chasing rabbits into the woods. It
was an old game, to train the boy to run, to detect the sounds of the wild,
taste the air and know when a storm was approaching, when the weather would
change, when the boys with the sticks and stones who goaded Old Greer would
come looking for Mitchell, daring him to steal. The heavy stale odour of their
sweat was the first thing he detected, the first sound was their breath and the
heavy pounding of their feet as their solid bodies strode towards him,
threatened him with broken bones if he didn’t obey. He’d taken the beating
because it calmed the rage, the rage that threatened if he didn’t control it, to
rip their throats out!
With this form of training, Wolf knew that
the boy could defend himself from the regular trouble a city could throw at
him. However, Wolf knew that the journey ahead would spell a danger to all once
Mitchell reached his twenty-fifth birthday, if Wolf could find him and protect
him, before, all hell broke loose.
It was nightfall, the city lights twinkled
all around below him, the faint sound of the Bay lapping the shoreline could be
heard and the cool air of the Atlantic brushed his face as he stood on the
roof, staring into the blackness.
Captain Jack Harkness, his coat fastened
against the cold wind was deep in thought and had been for quite a few
days. Something was troubling him, a
feeling deep in his gut, a feeling he had forgotten something, something that
was important. Unlike most things in
life, Jack had lived longer than anyone else, he had lived and died and come
back so many times, had loved and lost so many people, people so close that
even thinking of them now, in the blackness of the night, cut deep scars in his
heart. There were too many to remember,
and still too many to forget. Coming
back to Cardiff had been the hardest decision he’d had to make; coming back
brought him closer to those he’d lost.
Only one hundred and sixty miles on the motorway and he’d be in
London. He inhaled deeply, then turned
away, blinking the tears that blurred his vision. This was a stupid idea. This was possibly the stupidest of stupid
ideas, to come back when the scars hadn’t properly healed.
But he’d promised Gwen. He’d promised to stick around and make it
work. Torchwood. Jack sniffed the air and exhaled. This wasn’t good, it didn’t help, he came
upstairs to clear his head, but now with the thoughts of his life flooding his
memory, all he was doing was dredging over the past, a past that he couldn’t
get back, a past that no longer existed.
So why was he back in Cardiff, what was it about the place that called
for his return?
His mobile rang snapping him from his
reverie, as he brought it out of his pocket he saw Gwen’s name light up on the
screen and smiled.
‘Yes Gwen?’
He turned to face the door half expecting her to be standing there.
‘Are you planning on staying up there all night
Jack, only we’re experiencing a few glitches with the lights in here.’ Gwen’s Welsh voice spoke back.
‘Worth an investigation?’ He made his way to the exit door, already a
keenness to discover the root cause.
‘Oh, I think so, they’re flickering down
here with a rapid show of morse coding that I have never been able to decipher.’
‘I’m on my way, just whatever you do, do not
engage physical contact until I get there.’
‘I wasn’t planning on it, but hurry up yeah,
before I spoil their plans and find the trip switch.’
Jack took the stairs two at a time from
the roof to the top floor and ran along the corridor towards the fire exit and
down the next flight of stairs. As he
ran along the 17th Floor corridor the hairs on the back of his neck
prickled up, in fact the hair all over his body began to prickle and that faint
smell that electricity gave off in a heated room full of computers and
electronic equipment tickled his senses.
He halted and turned to where the charge seemed the strongest and hand
over his holster, but not withdrawing it, walked towards the far end of the
corridor, where the lights surged bright then dull and groaned as a force
stronger than it could maintain was trying to come through.
‘I’ll be there shortly Gwen.’ Jack pressed
his comms against his ear and heard the irritation of static through it. He removed it, sensing an overload of static
through his brain that might fry him if he didn’t.
He advanced forward into the darkening corridor.
Mitchell was sleeping soundly as Big Ben
chimed midnight. He had an early start in the morning; Alex wanted to see him
at 8am sharp. He’d barely finished his can of soda before his eyes closed and
he slumped back on the unkempt bed, the laptop switched off and at the foot of
the bed. Mitchell slept in his boxers,
his slim but muscular body, honed purely from the exercise he received in his
everyday life, not from working out in a gym to impress anyone but himself. He slept
thinking of Lexy and every so often his lips would purse as if he were about to
kiss her.
Wolf watched the boy for a few hours till
he was certain he was in a deep sleep, and slipped from the building, pulling
the door closed behind him. Outside the
flat, he no longer maintained the image of a wolf, but a tall slim, North
American Indian akin to the wolf and slunk into the shadows of the night.
Lexy Barlow checked her watch and sighed. The
cold night air was distinctly colder tonight than previous and she longed for
the warmth of her apartment in Park Square.
Lexy was from no fixed location, she was a
city girl born and bred, at least that’s what she was told. She was from rich
family stock, and had a title that she could use in the right situations and
circumstances. It had opened many doors for her, being a Lady but for the work
she did in her everyday life, the doctor of a small practice, taking care of
those less fortunate, people like Mitchell, and Hainey in the slums of the
Flaggan Estate, it was worthless. What
would she gain with a title of Lady?
If it hadn’t been for the charismatic
gentleman in the RAF great coat who had saved her nearly twenty five years ago,
her life might have been different now.
Mitchell had often asked her about her
family, but she couldn’t remember them, or didn’t wish to. Her father from notes had been a naval
officer and a good one at that, but something he’d seen one night that had shot
across his broadside, had changed him physically and mentally. One shore leave,
he murdered his wife and young son and Lexy had only survived because Torchwood
had been watching and waiting for her father.
On the HMS frigate, Rothshire, an alien
entity had taken over the entire crew, turning them into creatures that
consumed their host and entered their lives like body snatchers, continuing
their onslaught until they had completely wiped out a planet before moving on, and
their armies amassing for the next onslaught.
But as with most alien entities, those without full knowledge of Earth’s
defences, it was the bacteria on the planet that eventually crippled them, that,
and the intervention by Torchwood, but by then, Lexy’s family were dead.
She never discussed her family, it brought
memories that she’d buried deep within her subconscious and there she’d rather
they remained. But every so often, a piece of music, a soft aroma, a perfume or
cologne would revisit her memories and bring back the nightmare.
She knew she would have to forget again
soon and move on, but forgetting her past also meant forgetting her purpose,
and there were some things in her life now, she didn’t want to forget about,
one of those being Mitchell.
Lexy jumped as she heard a sound and
studied the shadows for darker shapes.
‘You know if you are going to stalk me,
you’re going to have to change that cologne.’ She half smiled.
There was a sigh and Wolf stepped from the
shadows.
‘It is difficult to creep up on you Lady
Barlow, without arousing some level of suspicion. And considering I’ve been festering in that
hovel he calls a flat...’ Wolf remained downwind of Lexy. He was six feet in
stature, strong and muscular. His eyes were dark like the wolf, his hearing as
acute, and he fought like a warrior.
‘Any news?’
‘No.’
She sighed turning and facing the opposite direction walked with Wolf to
where the dark shadows grew tall against the lights in the street. Cats yowled
in far off roof gardens and dogs yipped behind locked doors.
‘He must surely know of his existence, after
all this time?’ Wolf glanced up the street, the smell of fast food take away
and coffee to go, the kebab shops and restaurants, a bounty of meals he’d
normally steal from on his way home tempted his hunger.
‘Nope, not a dickie bird and believe me I’ve
tried. I’ve looked up his old number and
it bounces back a voice mail recording, I’ve contacted the old place but
there’s not even a ringtone. Wherever
our illustrious leader is, he’s not on the planet, or put it this way, we’re
not on his agenda.’
‘The boy is still young, another year maybe
and he will be required to pick up and take charge.’ Wolf growled, despising the man already.
‘He knows of his obligations Wolf. How is Mitchell, the last time I saw him he
looked as if he’d been in a fight?’
‘Hmmph!’
Wolf scoffed. ‘He’s working for Alex Shepperton, the man who had him
beaten. I would like to pay that man a
visit.’
‘You know you can’t, your loyalties are with
Mitchell, he must never know the truth. You go there all fists a-flying
and....it’s not time...’ She smelt the
Italian restaurant kitchen fans belching the rich meat aromas across the
street. ‘How about some supper, I
believe it is my turn.’
‘You’re the one with the money, Lady Barlow.’
‘No I’m the one with pockets.’ She smirked as Wolf shook his head. ‘Come on, Angelo’s is always good at this
time of the night. Besides I have a few
food parcels to collect.’
They crossed the road and up the back of
the restaurant to the back door, and stepped in, while in the darkness across
the street, the black shadows watched, and growled menacingly.
Jack Harkness watched as the static
electricity bounced off the ceiling and walls and arced along the carpet, long
static arms of electric feeling its way towards him, searching for an anchor,
something to keep it static, before whatever was building in the centre of the
corridor began growing, pulsating, opening.
Jack had seen it before all too often, where one rift closed another
would open. He’d hoped the rift would
remain sealed but when was anything meant to last forever? He stepped back as the light grew brighter in
the centre of the electrical charge, eking its way closer, and closer. He backed away, knowing where this would end,
he’d be pinioned to the spot, the anomaly, the rift needed something to secure
the safe passage of whatever was on the other side of the light. He couldn’t do that to Gwen, he couldn’t
suffer the agony of coming back again knowing that another threat would tear a
hole through the city and he’d just allowed it to happen. He forced himself back, back around a corner,
back into a side room, an unlocked door, to a stationary cupboard. A cupboard full of metal equipment that began
rattling, building up the static, staples in boxes began shuffling and
rattling, breaking the cardboard housing to escape, to seek out a source, like
a huge magnet drumming towards him. He
had to ignore it, he had to push it to one side. Jack opened the door a crack and saw the
tentacles of light reach up and along the walls like staggered legs of a giant
spider. Oh god, please don’t let it be giant spiders. He strained his ears, he could hear
screaming. A child’s scream, no, a
woman’s scream. It grew steadily louder
as the lights strobed the ceiling and walls, searching, forever searching for
the anchor to hold it in place.
He closed the door as the lights surged
towards him, the bright light temporally blinding him just for that
minute. He blinked and saw flashes of
light before his eyes. The metal filings
on the shelf behind him were poised ready to lodge themselves at whatever was
in the cupboard. He knew it would be
him. Why could he never just hide in a
linen cupboard, or anywhere that didn’t have anything that would hammer itself
into him?
He heard the scream, as if it were coming
through a long tunnel, pitched and desperate.
It sounded terrified, as if something was giving chase, as if something
was after the woman screaming, forever growing louder and closer. He chanced another look but the hallway was
so bright he was shielding his eyes. The
screaming boomed down the hallway till the lightning shook the entire building,
so hard, Gwen felt something move six floors down.
Then darkness and the strong smell of cordite.
Jack Harkness stepped into the blackened
corridor and wondered where the back-up generator was, often in these
situations all the back-up lights would flood the corridors, office floors and
fire escapes, he frowned. Digging into
his great coat he pulled out and switched on a Maglite torch, small but with a
strong glare of light it bounced circles of light across the walls one side to
the other, and through the mist, the residue of the Rift, the torchlight picked
up someone crouched on the ground, against a wall, huddled, holding their legs,
their head bowed. A woman, he was sure,
with long black hair, thread bands on her wrists, friendship bracelets. She wore a khaki coloured jacket torn in
places across the shoulders and a red stain against her right arm. He ran the torch around her, scanning up and
down the corridor in case he was missing something, and unclipped his pistol
from the holster.
‘Hey, are you alright?’ He scanned the walls and floors again but
again saw nothing. Turning the
torchlight back she was still sitting head bowed against her knees but now she
was crying softly. Jack took a deep
breath, a short pause and crouched in front of her. ‘I’m Jack, you’re safe now.’
The dark haired young woman looked up, her
eyes dark against the light, almost too dark. Jack smiled as reassuring as he
could, given the circumstances.
‘Where am I?’ She enquired never taking her eyes off his.
Jack felt relieved that he’d not had to
try and improvise if she didn’t understand or speak English.
‘Welcome to Torchwood.’ He smiled showing a mouthful of gleaming
white teeth. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Marley Hanratty. Did it come through?’ She now glanced over Jack’s shoulder but saw
nothing but darkness and the dust that danced in the torchlight.
‘Did what come through?’ Jack frowned and scanned the walls and ground
again. He’d detected nothing on his
vortex manipulator, it hadn’t even registered that Marley was in the building.
‘That...that reptogiganticus?’ She replied as if he should have known. Judging by Jack’s face, he didn’t. ‘We were in the forest...’ she began as Jack
interrupted.
‘Where?
What planet, what year?’
‘Earth stupid, this year.’ She shook her head.
‘Lady you came through the rift, a crack in
space and time, if you came from Earth, then it’s likely you’re from another
dimension.’ He stopped himself, as she
looked at him oddly. ‘Ok. you say you were running, and you were
in a forest, where was the forest, what part of...Earth are we talking?’
‘Lake District. I was there on holiday, staying by the
Coniston Lake with my boyfriend Geoff, but he wanted to go fishing. We were going to the boat, he has one moored
there and that’s when we heard the crashing in the forest behind us and a lot
of growling. ‘
‘What happened?’
‘There were a lot of gunshots and shouting
and then screaming. Geoff wanted to see what it was, then didn’t when he saw it
coming through the trees towards us.’
‘What did it look like?’
‘An alligator, a large alligator but with
hair, long black hair, on its back mainly. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t have
been real, even its size was questionable.’
‘What happened next?’
‘We ran obviously. A bloody great big lizard comes crashing
through the vegetation we were hardly taking pictures.’ She thought about that and lifted her hand
into her knee pocket on the front of her trousers and pulled out her
phone. It looked no different to his own
or that of Gwen’s. Jack frowned
again. How was this possible he asked
himself, if she came through the rift, how was she still in the same time line?
She brought up her photos scanning with
her thumb through a set of them. She held the phone to Jack, the large snapping
mouth of the alligator there in full colour.
As he clicked through the 12 or so shots, mostly blurred, obviously
taken as she ran with Geoff away from the monster, one thing was certain, if
she was from Earth, the beast wasn’t.
At a little after half seven in the
morning, Mitchell was lingering outside Alex Shepperton’s office. He’d had little choice in the matter
considering his two burly bruisers had hammered on the door till he’d opened it
then had the discourteous notion to drive him to the office in his jimjams. He was now dressed in his blue jeans, white
shirt and a hooded jumper. He was still
half asleep and yawned loudly as he waited to be summoned. As the big hand crept towards the nine, one
of the bruisers was messaged on his phone and Mitchell was frogmarched into the
plush office, with leather and wood interior.
On a hot day, which was often in the room, the leather sofas and wooden
beading aroma was quite pungent.
Mitchell stood in between the two thick set men in their Men in Black
suits but without the sunglasses and studied the smart dressed slimy prick behind
the desk.
Alex was busy reading through a legal
document and didn’t look up till he’d finished and put his signature at the
bottom. He turned over the document and
looked up at the half asleep boy before him.
‘I have a job for you.’
‘I’ve already got a job.’
‘I know but this is a better job, and one I
know would be suited to someone like you.’
Mitchell frowned. Most of the jobs he’d taken so far from Alex
had been the kind of job anyone could do, given the opportunity. ‘What kind of job?’ He tried to read Alex’s expression, but the
man was playing his cards close to his chest.
‘There’s a man by the name of Reuben Jacobs,
he works for the Ministry of Defence, and he has something that I want, and I
need you to get it for me.’
‘Can’t you just ask him yourself?’
‘It’s not as simple as that. What I want is sitting in an underground
hangar, but the blueprint will allow me to retrieve the item from the hangar,
which is where you come in.’
‘You want me to break into the hangar?’
‘Not exactly. I want you to be Reuben Jacob’s new best
friend.’
‘A ministry guy and a guy like me, that’s
never going to work, but like I said, that’s a job for you.’
‘No, it’s a job where you come in, as Jacobs
has a thing for ‘rent boys’ and I want you to make sure you’re the one he picks
for the night’s entertainment.’
Mitchell’s mouth fell open and Alex was
sure he’d paled considerably at the mere thought of spending the night with a
complete stranger.
‘This will wipe your debt with me
completely. You do this for me and it
will be the last thing you do. You defy
me, and it will be the last thing you ever do...permanently.’
He
watched from shadows of the larch trees five hundred yards from the red bricked
wall on Kensington Walk road, where the nine young men touted their trade. They were ill prepared for the cold spell on
this cold spring evening in March, where even the snowdrops were choosing to
remain underground for the warmth against the harsh wintry snap. Mitchell pulled the black woollen coat
tighter around his skinny frame as he remained silhouetted against the
trees. It was dark on the Kensington
Walk road, a familiar place for male prostitutes and more especially for this
group, run by a balding man with National Health glasses perched on a straight
nose of a pimp.
Colin Murphy was thirty seven and used to
work as a sales rep for Harvey’s warehouse on the Kellerman line back in
Derbyshire. Now he was making more money
as a pimp, dealing with the rich pickings of Kensington Walk, and the ministers
from the big House, with hours sitting in plush apartments while their wives
and children remained somewhere in the suburbs. Colin knew of the men in the
government who when their respected partners were away, would come to him for
that little bit on the side, and Colin would keep the paparazzi away from their
door, he would keep the secrets, for that extra bit of cash to tide him
over.
Nobody had batted an eye when a young man
had washed up in the Thames with his throat cut, nobody had missed him, but
Colin. Colin’s boys were young, runaways, homeless and desperate. He was their Fagin, who kept them housed in a
flat, to turn tricks when he needed the money, when he was called upon to service
the government officials.
Mitchell blew out steam on the air. The
temperature had plummeted to below freezing and the boys leaning against the
brick wall, were feeling it. He wondered if he could even begin to know what
they were thinking, as they stood waiting for a car, to offer them warmth,
food, a bed, for a few hours of pleasuring, to allow the minister to have his
filthy way before discarding them as home owners discard rubbish to a wheelie
bin.
He wondered if any one missed the boy
pulled from the Thames on the Monday afternoon after he was spotted floating in
the water near a river barge.
A black sedan pulled up alongside
Colin, the short haired youth and he leaned into the window, his skinny jeans
pulling tight around the arse, the pert arse Mitchell noted. There seemed quite
a discussion, perhaps negotiating his fees, then he stood up and turned to the
boys, pushing several notes into his pocket.
A young blond haired youth stepped towards the car and climbed in,
within minutes, the vehicle pulled away and Colin looked for another car and another
sale.
Mitchell slipped from beside the wall over
to Colin now pulling out his money to count again. He smiled gleefully almost
and as Mitchell neared, could make out it was in the region of £200.
‘Not bad, how much would you get for me?’
Colin shot Mitchell a look, gripping tight
hold of his money; he stuffed it back, once folded over into his pocket and
weighed up the tall youth with a soft American accent before him.
‘Depends what you’re looking for, if it’s a
quick shag and a fumble, then you’re better at the club, here you’ve got to put
your wares on show, not hide them behind a jacket.’
‘I need a man.’
The short haired youth scoffed. ‘Don’t we all, else we wouldn’t be standing
out here freezing our balls off hun.’
Mitchell produced a photograph from his
pocket of Reuben Jacobs, with his arms
around his two daughters and a wife, smiling for the cameras, in the latest
newspaper article about who was looking after Britain’s interests. Colin took the photo and glanced back at
Mitchell.
‘Why the interest?’ He narrowed his eyes at Mitchell before
returning the photo. ‘You’re not police
are ya?’
He paused, thinking of something lame, other
than the fact he wanted to obtain some secrets from the man with the finger on
the pulse of the most powerful weapon known to man and sitting somewhere in a
hangar under UK defence protocols.
He turned on his charm offensive. ‘He’s
got something I want.’ He shrugged
forcing a smile, his voice upping a tempo that surprised even him. He saw another car pull up and another youth
was summoned over.
‘Hold that thought hun I’ll be right back.’
Colin Murphy sent three more boys on their
way before he returned to talk with Mitchell, by which time a squad car was
seen driving towards them, and slipping an arm around Mitchell’s waist he
walked with him casually around a corner out of sight. They flattened themselves against the wall
waiting for the squad car to leave, it was taking its time.
‘Fuck off, go on, nothing to see.’ Colin whispered loudly over Mitchell’s
shoulder.
Along the road Mitchell made out another
car, the one he’d arrived in, the one containing Alex Shepperton and his two
colleagues. They needed confirmation
that the deal was in the bag before they were even considering driving off.
Mitchell turned to Colin pushing him further back along the alley way that ran
at the back of the wall. He pressed his
hand against Colin’s chest and stared hard into his brown eyes. He pulled a money clip from his back pocket
and waved it at Colin.
‘You get me with the guy in the black sedan
and I’ll give you £500.’
Colin stared at the money clip then back
to Mitchell.
‘If you’ve got that kind of money why do you
need me?’
‘I was told that you were the man with the
contacts, now can you get me in or not?’
Colin reached a hand towards the money
clip and nodded. Before Mitchell let go, he left Colin with a promise.
‘If you screw this up for me I’ll kill you!’
It was a few hours after midnight the
following day before the black sedan cruised the streets looking for another
male. Mitchell was ready for them. He’d
spent the last few hours going over how to stand, how to dress and he had to
lose the jacket. It was a bitterly cold night and he wished he were back in his
flat, eating another left over meal from another bin or wall, swearing at the
inane excuse for tv viewing on the laptop before falling into the unmade bed
next to the night before pizza, until he was ready for another call. It was how
his life worked.
He was owned by Alex, and he would be
forever owned by the man until he’d repaid his debt. Alex would call with a
job, he’d go undercover, get the job done and get out.
Mitchell was good with numbers, he had a
photographic memory, Alex instantly had him working on every security system
within his company, and within a month, his company had every known firewall
activated protecting the money laundering business from ever being detected by
the police and any other organisation with an interest in Shepperton’s
activities.
Colin could feel the £500 in his pocket. He had to sell Mitchell. Mitchell shivered
beside the wall, his jeans were loosely hanging from his hips, a t-shirt given
to him from Colin from a tattered over perfumed bag on the floor that portrayed
everything Mitchell wasn’t had been pulled over his head. It was half a t-shirt.
He felt stupid, ridiculous, he began to wonder why he was doing this, why
couldn’t he be hacking a financial building, a bank, jacking a car, anything
but portraying himself as a tart in tight fitting clothing that he’d never been
seen dead in. He smiled demurely at the
driver and walked over in a less than convincing mince, giving that idea up the
closer he reached the car. He saw the
Minister, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, the tie on his lap, obviously for something
else Mitchell thought. He was breathing heavily, perhaps from over stimulation;
there was a lot on offer tonight.
It felt humiliating as Colin presented him
to the Minister as if he were conducting a market stall, selling off a piece of
meat, or perhaps that was what he was.
Meat. The door opened to the car, Colin had his money. Mitchell climbed in, his jacket dumped on the
floor and closed the door behind him. He sat nervously, unsure whether he was
meant to fawn all over the man in the car or wait till they arrived in the
flat.
The blackout window wound to the top and
no words were spoken between both men till the car pulled up outside a large
Georgian building that seemed to take up the whole street. Mitchell could see the Houses of Parliament
standing tall and majestic across the water, like an old battleship, with Big
Ben holding steady.
The door was opened for him and he climbed
out, clutching his coat and wishing he could pull it on. He was led inside and up the stairs where the
rooms were large and open plan and warm. The furniture that graced the rooms
didn’t look as if they belonged to the man huffing and puffing behind him, so
Mitchell deduced that the apartment was rented for as long as the minister
remained in office.
He looked to the minister who now poured
himself a drink to calm himself before looking at the young man in his room.
‘Don’t just stand there, let me see you.’
Mitchell hesitated and dropped the jacket
by his feet. He pulled the short t-shirt over his head revealing the muscular
rippled chest and trimmed body. He let
the t-shirt drop to the ground. The minister seemed impressed but he wanted to
see more, so Mitchell stripped till he was standing in his stocking feet. The
minister smiled, knocked back his whisky, and led Mitchell to the bedroom.
Mitchell lay exhausted beside the now
snoring minister and stared up at the ceiling.
The patterned ceiling rose with its gilt gold edging seemed out of place
in a room where sex seemed more prevalent than a married man with two children. He turned his head, the old boy was out for the
count, and it had to be said, that he’d given as much as he received. Mitchell sat up and quietly left Reuben
sleeping. Time to explore!
The flat was like a bachelor’s pad or a
single man’s domain. Although two guest rooms and the en suite room, it was
evident that at some point, this place belonged to a rich family man with money
in the city. He wondered what Alex’s place would be like. He’d never met him at
his own home, always in dank warehouses or his car, or his office, seated
beside two heavies with bald heads and a thick neck that gave way that they
really worked out, mostly on people rather than boxing props.
The kitchen was separate from the lounge
and dining room, it was a small galley in comparison to the other rooms, and
even the bathroom was larger.
He listened out again to hear the snoring
continue and returned to the lounge and pulled on his boxers from the night
before and began to search through every drawer he could find. He hadn’t heard the snoring cease, or the minister
awaken only to find the young man no longer sleeping beside him, he hadn’t
heard him step into the room, nor watch him rifle the drawers until he heard
him speak.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Mitchell froze then straightened up.
‘My back is a little sore after last night,
I was looking for painkillers.’ He
maintained eye contact. ‘Only I can’t find any.’
‘Not surprising, they’re in the kitchen,
second drawer on the left.’
Mitchell smiled.
‘That’s probably why I couldn’t find any.’ He paused awkwardly before making his way to
the kitchen and stared at the row of drawers leading to the sink. He pulled open the second drawer on the left
and found an unopened packet of Anadin and snapped two from their blister
pack.
‘Glasses,
where do you keep those?’ He was already
opening cupboards as he called, then yelled back. ‘Don’t worry, found them.’
Reuben watched the young body from the
entrance to the kitchen. He was wrapped in his bathrobe that hung at the back of
his bedroom door.
‘I have to go to work soon; my driver will
take you wherever you need to go.’
Mitchell turned to face him, the tumbler
empty, the water that missed his mouth dribbling down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
‘Ok.’ He wasn’t sure of the correct procedures as
far as prostitutes went these days, if at all. The last time he’d spent the
night with a girl he’d never offered to take her home, she’d usually left
before he’d awoken.
Reuben stepped towards Mitchell as he placed
the glass on the counter. He placed his hand against the young man’s belly,
slipping his fingers inside his boxers and inhaled deeply as he gently massaged
his thumb over the tip. Mitchell closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He could feel the rush of blood surge through
his manhood and had to control his urges. He opened his eyes and felt Reuben’s
breath against his own and before the older man let his lips taste Mitchells,
mumbled.
‘I want to see you again.’
Mitchell washed the last 24 hours from his
body; he knocked back pills for a headache building in the back of his skull as
he stepped from the shower and padded naked about his flat. The wolf that lay
by the un-made bed seemed to shake its head in disgust. Mitchell frowned.
‘If you’d had your dick where mine has been
all night you’d want to air it too. Thanks for tidying up by the way, while I
was out, and doing the shopping, paying the rent.’ He sighed sarcastically as he picked through
the important envelopes that demanded money.
‘Just as well one of us covers the bills eh.’
He sat on the edge of the bed pulling the
money from his jeans and stared at the extra money Reuben had given him.
‘£200 for a night’s work. God my life is one
long crock of shit!!’ He sighed and
threw the money down on the bed and laid back, his hands behind his head and
stared up at the ninja spider. It was a
large spider he hadn’t meant to keep, but it wasn’t doing any harm and he
wasn’t afraid of them, but it could explain why many of the girls he’d invited
back to the flat hadn’t stayed the whole night. It was somewhat of a permanent
resident weaving above him. The wolf rested its muzzle against his taut
belly, the whiskers tickling his skin.
Mitchell smiled and brought a hand down to rub its ear.
‘There’s gotta be something else out there
for me. This was not something I planned on doing when I left home. And Mr Mitchell what is it you do these
days? Oh well sir, since leaving home I slipped into the underworld of pick pocketing
and extortion followed by a moment of madness as a rent boy. Yeah!’
Shepperton called while Mitchell waited
for the black sedan to collect him, he wanted a meet. Not taking no for an
answer, he sent his heavies to call and collect him, and they drove him to the
disused familiar play area.
Tennison Park was overgrown and rarely any
kids played on the swings now it was littered with needles and silver
wrappings. The whole area was rundown so nobody was likely to question two
heavies, a business man and a young hood with his hands in his pockets keeping
out the cold air.
‘Progress report, I thought I told you,
always keep me informed.’ Alex spoke abruptly, his hands behind his back of the
expensive tailored suit, with the stripes running evenly down his threads.
‘If I had something to report I would tell
you.’ Mitchell tilted his head slightly.
‘So far he wants me back, but he doesn’t trust me enough to let me stay on my
own. I need something to help him relax.’
Ideally to sleep longer Mitchell
hoped.
Alex nodded to the man on his left who
produced a packet of pills and held them out.
‘I’ll add that onto your debt.’
‘Aw come on that’s not fair.’
‘Count yourself lucky I’m not charging by
the hour.’
Mitchell took the bag reluctantly and
pushed it into his pocket.
‘Just so long as it knocks him out long
enough for me to case the joint. So far I’ve found nothing that looks like a
document.’
‘Look for a laptop, perhaps he keeps his
documents on there.’
‘Duh! Think I didn’t look for that first?’ He backed away from the nearest heavy who
advanced quickly to give Mitchell a thick ear.
He ducked.
‘That document is important and I need it
before someone else gets their hands on it.
You said you’d get it for me by the end of the week, so far I’m not
seeing any progress, and time is money Mitchell.’
‘I need the guy to trust me, you know what
these people are like, you work for enough of them. First I have to gain their
trust.’ He kept a watchful eye on the
nearest heavy. ‘I’m going to need some money.’
Alex Shepperton burst out laughing.
‘Money? You?’ He flicked his head towards the two men who
grabbed Mitchell, twisting his arms behind his back and holding him in a head
lock. One of the men produced a knife
and held it to Mitchell’s throat.
‘Hey get off me.’ He protested unable to shake the men off him.
‘I don’t think you understand the situation
you’re in here. I don’t lend out money
especially not to scum like you. If you
want money, ask your minister to pay for you. The end of the week
Mitchell.....or I send the boys around and double the debt.’
Mitchell couldn’t concentrate all day as
he lingered about the flat waiting on the sedan. He felt his life was never going to be his
own, he would either be screwed by a minister or by Alex. He stared at the state of the flat, littered
with yesterday’s, no when did he have ham and cheese pizza? Thursday. He grabbed a bin bag and began tossing in
crap from the floor, used paper tissues, pizza boxes, empty milk cartons and
whatever had died in the bottom of the fridge.
He needed to occupy his mind, to plan an escape from his life and get
the hell out of London. He had just finished binning his second pile of trash
when someone rang the bell. The wolf
growled and glanced towards the door.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll answer it.’ He muttered snatching at the door to see a
uniformed driver waiting with a car.
‘I’ll just be a second.’ He glanced back at
the wolf. ‘Be good, hold my calls, don’t
bring anyone back and stay the hell off the phone.’ He raised a brow and was certain that the
wolf did the same, then closed the door behind him with a click.
The wolf jumped from the bed and put his front
paws on the window sill and memorised the number plate.
Reuben was in the flat at the same time
every day unless he was called away to a meeting. He stowed his belongings
regarding his ministry work into the safe under the bed in the en suite room,
aside from the laptop that held only minor files of no real importance. He was
a careful man. He had never been out of
an office until he’d taken the job with the Ministry to protect the planet
against all known attacks, although most these days didn’t just come from the
skies above, some came from their own planet.
Some on their own doorstep. The Arakian
space ship that had crash landed in the arable field in Hertfordshire had
contained an invaluable piece of kit which in layman’s terms would mean that
any trouble in the Middle East or any warring factions which threatened Britain
as a whole could be eliminated with the flick of a switch and several
codes. In simple terms it was similar to
a nuclear warhead, only this centralised the blast to just one area, wiping it
clean off the map. In the wrong hands it could be potentially lethal.
He was in the kitchen pouring a coffee
when Mitchell arrived and came back through dressed in casual wear sporting a
pair of slippers. Mitchell smiled. It
was like visiting an old uncle, all that was missing was an open log fire and
the wolfhound lying beside it.
‘Kettle’s just boiled if you’re parched.’ He sat down in the reclining chair and pushed
it back so he was almost prone.
‘No, I’m good.’ He discarded his coat on the arm of another
chair and licked his dry lips. ‘So...
what do you want me to do tonight?’
‘Have you eaten?’
Mitchell raised a brow. ‘In what context?’
Reuben laughed. ‘I meant in terms of food. We could order in. Alistair Brody one of the
ministers I work for, is organising a party, just a casual affair, I was
thinking, we could call there after we’ve eaten. Is that alright?’
Mitchell pulled a face, the guy was asking
him? ‘Sure why not, so we going for hog roast or cheap shit at McDonalds?’
‘Oh I like you.’ Reuben smiled patting his lap. ‘I think I like you very much.’ He slipped his hand inside Mitchell’s jeans as
the lad sat down on his knee, and after popping the top button fondled dessert.
Alistair Brody was a strict authoritarian
who when things were frustrating offloaded on whoever was closest. For many years,
Reuben, had felt the full force of the attacks from Brody. He was good at his
job, got things done, manipulated and threatened and often beat those who
didn’t agree, into submission. He never
failed to deliver and that was why after 35years he was still in the job,
unlike many before him, and many below him.
He often arranged parties for other
ministers and their partners, although never the partners they were married to.
The parties often contained many grams of powder, lots of alcohol and lots of
wanton men or women or both. The last
man Alistair had fucked had cried like a baby and been dumped unceremoniously
off London bridge. His career meant
enough to him to know that paper trails would never link him to any murder this
or the other side of the Thames. But it never stopped him from releasing his
pent up frustration on any piece of meat that was in his office when he needed
to let rip.
The parties were to check out those strong
enough to handle him, and quite often he would take other people’s partners,
depriving them of their £200 for the night, gorging himself on their
fruits.
The party was in his Chelsea home and was
already in full swing when Mitchell and Reuben entered. Music and laughter,
bottles and glasses chinking, two men snorting powder across a mirror in
another room, naked men and women cavorting in rooms, Mitchell had never been
to a party quite like this before and as the night wore on he really hoped he’d
never visit another.
As soon as they’d entered and given their
coats to someone Mitchell assumed was the butler, Alistair made a beeline
towards them insisting Reuben make himself comfortable at the drinks bar while
he got to know Mitchell.
‘Now let’s see what you’ve got to offer me.’ His big brown eyes widened in his fat face as
he pushed Mitchell against the wall in the small bedroom not in use and locked
the door. The onion breath of the man
and his layers of greasy flab forced Mitchell to recoil, he tried to back away
but Alistair was an old hand and with one gripping Mitchell’s balls tightly he
instructed Mitchell to remove his shirt while the fat minister paid attention
to the candy in his hand.
He was like a man possessed, or a child
loose in a candy store, unsure what to go for first. He liked the look of
Mitchell, fresh meat, something he’d not had in a long time. He sucked, pawed, slammed Mitchell against
the wall and fucked him hard; punching him in the small of his back if he even
attempted to move till he was done. Mitchell gritted his teeth, took the
punishment and prayed it would be over soon.
In the main room, Reuben glanced around
only once before realising that Alistair had taken another of his escorts and
the boy would never be the same again. He resigned himself to a triple scotch
and drank himself into a stupor.
‘I want to see you again, in my chambers, 8 o’clock
every Wednesday evening. I’ll send a car
to collect you.’ He zipped up his
trousers as Mitchell lay on the bed naked and sweaty from the sexual experience
he hoped would never happen again. He felt dirty and violated. He’d never expected that and at that moment
he wanted to kill Alistair Brody!
Reuben was stoned out of his skull on
powder and scotch and it took both Mitchell and the driver to get him up the
stairs to his flat. Mitchell was angry, ready to explode but the man was in no
fit state to argue back.
‘I’ll stay with him till he sobers up.’ He
assured the driver who at half 4 in the morning wanted nothing more than to go
home and sleep. Mitchell stripped the man down to his birthday suit and put him
in bed, while the old man muttered drunkenly, eyes closed till he slipped into
slumber and snored loudly.
‘Yeah you sleep, so I can look for my ticket
out of here.’ Mitchell growled.
He
decanted some whisky into a tumbler and knocked it back it washing away some of
the acrid taste from the other man’s tongue that had been down his throat. Though the more he thought about it, it
forced the bile to rise up into his throat and he raced to the bathroom to
throw up. After inspecting his body in the mirror, he lubed his reddened
arsehole that felt worse than when he’d slipped and landed on his coccyx.
Reuben slept through the search of the
flat for the documents. The laptop was the only find and after completing a
search of his hard drive and program files and saved passwords that opened up
his computer and details to every file on his system he found nothing.
Mitchell ran his fingers through his hair
as he sat in his boxers on the recliner.
He pushed the chair back so he was staring up at the ceiling with the
gold gilt edging as a thought struck him.
If a man like Reuben wanted to keep something secret, knowing people
like Mitchell would rifle through his apartment looking for important
documents, where would he hide his briefcase and files?
‘He’d keep it under his pillow or at best
within the room he sleeps in.’ He pushed
back the recliner and ran to the bedroom and dropped to floor level peering
under the bed. He smiled when he saw the
raised and screwed to the floor safe. ‘Bingo.’
The lock was digitally coded and required
a six digit pin number which after several different attempts of securing 3 of
the 6 numbers, scrambled the digits and reset itself. He needed an authenticator. He thumped the floor in frustration. Reuben murmured in his sleep.
‘Phone.’
Mitchell searched for it; retraced details through the laptop, the code
had to be somewhere. He returned to the
safe and stared at the box. Nothing
would shift the lid until he’d cracked the code. And without the code, or the
device with the code, he wouldn’t be able to unlock it at all. Reuben broke
wind loudly.
‘Shit!’
Will
Mitchell find the codes for the safe before Alex grows impatient for the
document and send in someone else? Who
is Marley Hanratty and why is the rift opening up once more?
Find
out more in the next chapter of Mitchell, next month.
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