The House That Jack Built

TEN

It was almost as if the ghostly water had frozen Rob, stuck on his knees staring at the spare bed that had reasserted itself in the room. It seemed solid enough. The creases of the off-white sheet, the loose silken threads on the embroidered base, a plastic badge with the brand-name on it turned yellow over the years. It seemed ridiculous to think that an old bathtub had occupied the same space only a few minutes ago.

He looked down at his wet shirt, a hint of pink in the damp of the white fabric. That was real enough. He heard Julia leave the room, but his mouth felt soft and useless, and he couldn't believe it would ever be used for speaking again. This proved untrue, as the minute he heard her scream he was shouting her name and getting to his feet.

She was standing in the hallway, staring down at a man in a three-piece suit who lay unconscious at her feet.

'He's real,' she said, nudging him with her foot.

Rob dropped to his haunches and rolled the man onto his back. There was a white sheen to his hair and eyebrows, small crystals on his cheeks and forehead. Rob touched the skin gently. 'Ice,' he whispered. 'He's covered in bloody ice.'

Julia made a slight groaning noise and leaned against the airing cupboard door. 'What's going on?' she said, not expecting an answer.

Rob didn't feel up to giving her one. 'He's alive,' he said, feeling the man's pulse. He frisked through the man's pockets, pulling a wallet out of his jacket. The wallet was sparse and ordered, unlike his own graveyard of receipts and store benefit cards; there was a crisp twenty-pound note, a plain black credit card and a business card featuring a simple message: 'The bearer of this card is Ianto Jones. If found, please dial 000 and wait for a response.'

'That's not even a proper number,' Julia said, reading over Rob's shoulder.

'One way to find out,' he replied, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and dialling three zeroes. Someone answered almost straight away, and Rob raised his eyebrows at Julia. 'Hello, erm… My name's Rob Wallace, and I've just found someone called Ianto Jones in my airing cupboard.'

The other person obviously commented on this. Julia watched a flash of embarrassment cross her husband's face before anger reasserted itself. 'I know it sounds bloody mad,' he replied, 'but it seems to be the night for that around here. There was a… ghost…'

It was the first time the word had actually occurred to Rob, and the minute it fell out of his mouth, he wished he could swallow it again — it sounded stupid and embarrassing, the sort of thing a child would say. 'Look, it doesn't matter. He's alive but he's out of it. Freezing cold and… well, I don't know… he seems OK, but he shouldn't be here, that's for sure. I'm in Penylan, a house called Jackson Leaves…' Rob looked startled, holding the phone away from his head.

'He hung up on me,' he said. 'Says he knows where we are, and he's coming over.'

'Is that a good thing?' Julia asked.

Rob didn't know, shaking his head and trying to think of what to do next.

'We should try and warm him up,' said Julia. 'Maybe…' She'd been about to suggest a bath but had then been unable to face the idea. 'I don't know, get a fire going or something… Wrap him in blankets.'

Rob thought for a moment, unable to decide whether he was happy helping this stranger or not. He gave an irritated growl as he realised he couldn't not. 'All right then, let's get him downstairs. You grab his legs…'

Julia did. 'God,' she exclaimed before letting him go again. 'He's freezing.'

'I know.'

Rob was gritting his teeth, hooking his arms under Ianto's armpits and trying to lift the man's dead weight. 'Heavy, too.'

Julia took the hint and grabbed Ianto's legs again, ignoring the cold feel of him on her palms.

She went backwards, shuffling awkwardly, feet splayed out for balance as Rob grunted his way after her.

'Going to put my back out,' Rob muttered, trying to get a better hold of Ianto. He didn't notice the shadow that fell across them from the top of the stairs, but Julia did. She knew who she would see when she looked up, could tell by how wide the shadow was.

'Weird,' Rob said. 'I can smell onions…'

'Just keep going,' Julia replied, refusing to look at the fat man above them as he licked his lips and wiped the sweat from his palms on the shiny breast of his pinstripe suit.

They got to the foot of the stairs, and Rob turned around, stretching his back and dragging Ianto into the lounge.

He laid Ianto on the sofa and then came dashing towards her.

'I think I saw some fire stuff in the cupboard under the stairs,' he said, rubbing his hands together from the cold. He saw a look on her face that worried him. 'Don't,' he said, shaking slightly. 'If I stop, I'll lose it. Seriously, I've got to keep moving, don't think… just do.'

He pushed past her and jogged to the cupboard, yanking the door open and rifling through the junk inside. They were going to have to throw most of this crap away, whatever Julia might say. There were boxes of newspapers and magazines, a stack of yellowing paperbacks, an old croquet set (though one of the mallets had clearly been damaged at some point, as the shaft was wrapped in plastic tape), an old Dansette record player… so much rubbish. He grabbed a box of the newspapers and spotted a couple of carrier bags of dried kindling. No coal or larger logs, though; no doubt they were outside. They could stay there. He'd build the thing out of sticks and newspaper, rather than go hunting for them; there was plenty of it, after all. He took it all through to the grate, closing the lounge door behind him, and began snapping fire-lighters over scrunched-up balls of decade-old newspaper.

'What are we doing?' Julia asked.

Rob shook his head. 'That man will be here soon.'

'So?' Julia responded. 'For all we know he's… I don't know.' She hugged herself. 'He might be no help at all. I mean… Jesus … What's happening, Rob?'

Her voice was getting more high-pitched, she was losing the numbness that had kept her going, and now she just wanted to start lashing out.

Rob was sinking into himself, his fingers slowly ferreting around in a matchbox for a fresh match to light.

'Why are we even still here?' she asked.

Rob couldn't give her an answer, slowly striking a match against the crumbling sandpaper. The match snapped, unlit. He hunted for another.

' Seriously,' Julia continued, 'this is ridiculous. Please tell me you have the van keys? We could be driving up the road and away from here…'

The second match flared.

Julia walked towards the lounge door, determined to get out of the building.

The door began to vibrate in its frame, wood hammering against wood, hard enough to bring dust from the ceiling. Julia gave a surprised yelp and Rob dropped the match to the floor, running to her side and grabbing her protectively. They squeezed each other as the banging continued, a pounding that seemed to move from the door across the walls and ceiling, like a colossal hammer being brought down on the house all around them.

The television switched on, its screen filled with static, the white noise of the speaker drowning out the faint crackle of a building flame where the dropped match was setting fire to the rug. Anything can be heard in the chaos of white noise, whispers and the delicate shapes of words beneath the crackle and pop. If Rob and Julia had been feeling rational, they would never have believed they heard voices in the speaker.

They were not feeling rational.

Rob's fingers dug into the pale flesh of Julia's shoulder, pressing bright white crescents into the pink of her skin as the house continued to beat around them. Julia wasn't in the least surprised to catch the smell of onions on her tongue, she had no doubt the fat man was pressing his weight against the other side of the door at that very moment.

It was Ianto, opening eyes crusty and chill with the rime of frost, that spotted the danger coming from the lit rug. He rolled off the sofa, an awkward grunt knocked out of him as his limbs refused to hold him up, dragged himself by his elbows and rolled onto the tiny fire, his damp suit hissing as it extinguished the flames. His mind was slow to function, but somewhere right on the periphery of his awareness — and even above the noise of the television — he heard a familiar engine outside the house, the heavy wheels grinding gravel beneath them. He heard two doors slam closed, and the sound of boots running towards the front door. He tried to move but pins and needles rioted through his body, as frantic as the TV static that threw its light onto his face.

'They're here,' he whispered, as the pounding in the walls suddenly stopped to be replaced by a far more comforting knock on the door.