Cancer specialist Oliver Feltrow disagrees: ‘Terminal illness care has always been prey to so-called miracle hoaxes like this. Proper palliative care can be derailed by these claims of a total cure, leading to a tragically inevitable relapse. The really sick people are those behind this scam.’
Passengers on the ferry last weekend rallied to support the Hope Boat. ‘I had no idea,’ said Mr Ross Kielty, 35, of Neath. ‘Fancy learning that the wife and I have been on a shopping trip while everyone around us has been cured of god knows what. No wonder they’re drinking the bar dry!’
There were several photographs accompanying the article. A picture of the ferry and a few shots of passengers. They started to drift into close-up on the screen as Jack continued his narrative.
‘So, the system notices this article, and flags it as being on our very doorstep. And so, as the only person in the Hub, you print out a timetable and head out. And that’s not all. Look…’
Gwen gasped. There, at the very back of a crowd of a picture from over a week ago, was a woman who looked exactly like Ianto.
‘I don’t remember, I don’t remember,’ said Ianto very quietly.
IANTO CAN RIDE A HORSE ACROSS A BEACH WITHOUT FEAR OR SHAME
‘You OK?’ asked Jack. Ianto was in the tourist office, diligently tidying away leaflets in the carousel. He hadn’t exactly run out of the Boardroom, but it hadn’t been a slow saunter either.
‘No, Jack,’ sighed Ianto. ‘I’m really, really scared, and I don’t remember a thing about that ferry. If that’s not me, who is it?’
‘Ianto, relax.’ Jack’s voice was soothing. ‘Come on. Let’s talk about this. See what we can sort out.’
‘No,’ said Ianto. ‘I can’t relax. My breasts really ache.’ He popped down a small pile of postcards of interesting Welsh political buildings and rubbed at his left breast. ‘It’s really sore.’
‘Would you like me to rub it better?’ Jack was always smooth.
Ianto glanced sharply at him. ‘Jack, it really itches. Maybe it’s this top. I swear it’s a poly-cotton mix, but the label says no. But then what kind of fool trusts a label? “Dry clean only”! I wasn’t born yesterday.’
‘You are such a princess.’
‘Well yes, obviously.’ Ianto was lost in thought. ‘Geranium leaves are supposed to be good. But that’s for when you’re lactating, I think.’
‘Are you lactating?’ Jack wore an expression of dangerous interest.
‘I assure you, you would be the last person to know if I was.’ Ianto moved into a corner.
‘Is that what’s been different about the coffee?’ Jack laughed.
Ianto snapped the elastic band off of a new batch of leaflets about an organic jam activity centre. He pinged the band expertly at Jack’s ear. The Captain clapped his hands over the ear and gave Ianto a pout.
‘God, you’re moody these days – you’re not… at that time of the month, are you?’
Ianto stared at him, horrified. ‘Oh. I hope not. Am I? How can I tell?’
‘Wikipedia,’ Jack tutted. ‘Wikipedia.’
‘It’s just… Look, can we sort this out before I have to find out?’
Jack reached across the desk and took Ianto’s hand. He led him gently back into the Hub. ‘Come on. Ianto – that ferry. What if you were on it? Gwen’s going through the files, seeing if there’s any reference to you. Think. Has it triggered anything? Is that little pill working?’
Ianto shrugged. ‘Not really. Well, it is, kind of. I’ve been remembering working at a supermarket while I was at university. I can remember the prices of everything. From tinned peas to cereals. Every single brand. It’s not terribly helpful, but it’s allowed me to work out the true rate of inflation.’
‘Can you remember anything more? Think. Ferry. Ever been on the ferry before?’
Ianto shook his head. ‘No. The only time I took the Irish ferry was from Swansea when I was a kid. Mum drank two pints of Guinness on the way over and was sick and she clipped me over the ear when I laughed.’
‘Thank you. That’s charming, but not entirely helpful.’
‘It was cold and windy, and they only had Panda Cola and I wanted a slush puppy.’ Ianto’s face took on a wistful glaze. ‘And… ah.’ His face lit up. ‘The full range of alcopops and a quite unbelievable offer on cocktail jugs. But I’m travelling on my own, and I don’t like saying the names out loud.’ He stole a glance at Jack. ‘Some of them are quite frank, you know.’
‘That they are. People who order Sex On A Beach have clearly never done it.’ Jack cupped a hand to Ianto’s cheek. ‘Well done, Ianto. We’ve a recent memory. Anything more?’ Jack had steered him down to the Boardroom. He signalled Gwen over.
Ianto’s eyes started to cloud over just slightly, and a thought happened. ‘I’m starting to remember something. Oh yes.’
‘What?’
Ianto shuddered. ‘Hen night.’
2. LUCKY DEBBIE’S DUTY-FREE PURSUIT OF LOVE
IANTO IS HAVING A FLASHBACK
It is last Friday night. Ianto is on a ferry. Ianto is alone at the bar. Ianto is a man. Which, at the time, isn’t surprising, really. But thinking about it now… Anyway, he’s there on the ferry, pulling out of Cardiff Bay, and there’s a little cabin with orange curtains and a stranger snoring in the top bunk, so he’s at the bar. He’s asked them to make him a coffee to keep him alert, and he’s not liking any of it. The beans were burnt, over-diluted, and it’s been sat in the coffee-maker since February. He thinks he may stop being so silly. He’s supposed to blend in, but here he is at the bar in a suit drinking coffee from a tiny cup and saucer and all around him is noise and formica and laughter and music from every nightmare wedding disco in his life.
He’s keeping an eye out. Someone here. Several someones. Someone must be a patient. Someone must be ill. Does anyone look ill? Or out of place? Who are the patients? Who are the doctors? There’s a hen night over there, dressed as nurses, but they’ve also got on devil horns, angel wings and some tinsel. Perhaps it’s all a double bluff? Ah. Cunning.
He looks over at them a bit more. They seem happy and very drunk. They’re all so young and so loud and keep yelling out for Lucky Debbie. He guesses Debbie is getting married.
‘Hello, sailor!’ says a voice at his elbow.
He looks around. She’s quite drunk but very pretty. And wearing L-Plates.
‘Hello.’ He smiles.
‘I’m Debbie,’ she says. She’s trying to attract the attention of the bored bar staff by waving a handful of notes.
‘As in Lucky Debbie?’
She smiles. ‘Yeah. And you?’
‘Ianto. Not lucky at all, really.’
She makes a boo-hoo face at him. ‘Well, we can change all that, you know. Clearly, I’m spoken for – not that that’s gonna stop me licking whipped cream off the nipples of a Chippendale tomorrow night – but lots of my friends are… well, you know… Hen Night. Come on, join us. Hey!’ This to a barman, who appears to be twelve and entirely covered in acne. ‘Four jugs of Screaming Orgasm, One Shitting Whippet, a rack of Zambucas and a pineapple juice.’
‘Pineapple juice?’ asks Ianto.
Debbie leans forward, a bit confidential. ‘There’s a reason why I’m Lucky Debbie. And a lot of it’s to do with pacing myself when I’m around those screaming whores. God, we have a laugh, but sometimes it all gets a bit much. And when you’ve picked vomit out of your hair on the bus home once, it’s kind of… a sign. You want anything?’