Read Online Risk Assessment by James Goss - Free Book Online Page B

world.’
    And he looked around the table and smiled. There was dutiful applause. The man bowed.
    He picked up a sharp knife and pointed to the assembled diners. ‘I think the honour of preparing this alien should go to. . .’ The knife waved across the room and settled on a figure. ‘Well, Madam Squeers, as the only lady present. . . would you care to make the first cut?’
    The woman stood, bowing stiffly, and acknowledging the jealous murmurs of the others at the table.
    She took the knife ceremonially and observed it coolly. And then she turned to the diners.
    ‘It will be an honour,’ she said.
    And she looked up, her face caught in the flickering light.
    The tall man gasped. ‘You. . . you’re not. . .’
    The knife made only the tiniest noise as it whispered past his windpipe, before making several darting movements around the table.
    It was all over in seconds. The woman surveyed the diners slumped over the table, and cocked an ear to check that she hadn’t alerted either Jilks or Conradin.
    She dipped a finger in the soup and tasted it. Too salty.
    She turned, and advanced on the figure in the corner. It rattled with alarm, but she held the knife up to her mouth in a shushing gesture. ‘I am here to help,’ she said, bending down and slicing through the cords that bound it.
    As she stood back, the alien unfolded, twitching arms like branches spreading out from a body made of toadstools and mossy tree bark. It shuffled towards her, sharp leaves whipping through the air. For a second, it looked like it was about to fall on the woman, and then it paused. Waiting.
    She looked at it calmly, and spoke. ‘My names is Agnes Havisham,’ she said. ‘We have received your message. Help is on the way.’
    They strode out of Torchwood into a night down the Bay. It was early evening – post-work drinkers trying not to stare at the woman in crinolines before deciding she was probably promoting a tourist attraction.
    Gwen found them a cocktail bar/club/dim-sum parlour where the service was unobtrusive to the point of being non-existent. Agnes stared happily out across the Bay.
    Gwen ordered beer for herself and tea for Agnes, then sat back. Mustn’t make it look like an interrogation, she told herself. And yawned happily. ‘What do you think of Cardiff?’ she asked.
    ‘Oh, magnificent what’s been managed here, don’t you think, my dear?’ Agnes said. ‘Cardiff really has made itself. Why, I remember the first time I came here was in. . . ooh, turn of the century before last. That Rift had opened up and the dead were walking the streets. Apparently it wasn’t the first time. Well, that was the local legend, anyway. Honestly, you’d have loved it – taking pot shots at the Undead without their grieving loved ones noticing. Oh, the mess!’ Agnes laughed, as though it brought back fond memories.
    ‘Oh, Zombies!’ Gwen laughed as well. ‘God, they’re the worst, aren’t they?’
    ‘Ah, you’ve met the Undead? No conversation!’ Agnes smiled.
    ‘Yeah, and no real plan other than shuffling around, eating people and stinking the place out.’
    ‘Tiresome,’ Agnes agreed. ‘And requires no end of explaining away.’
    ‘Oh, we don’t really bother with that so much these days,’ said Gwen.
    ‘What, my dear?’ Agnes’s cup paused halfway to her lips, and her eyes narrowed dangerously.
    ‘Well, these days the whole alien cat is rather out of the bag.’
    ‘Am I to reprimand Captain Harkness for this?’ Agnes asked.
    ‘Oh no. The Daleks invaded.’
    ‘Goodness!’ Agnes gasped. ‘I’ve seen lithographs, but never come across such fearsome mechanicals! And have you?’
    ‘Horrible,’ said Gwen. ‘But after that. . . well, everyone kind of knows about aliens. We still try and keep Torchwood a bit secret. But, you know, alien invasions and so on are now a bit like a rubbish one-night stand, you know. Everyone just prefers not to talk about it.’
    ‘I see,’ said Agnes. ‘And what is a