He decides the thin, yellow man is dying – probably of about five different things. Perhaps the oldies were just becoming forgetful, or hoping to keep rowing for a few more years. Perhaps the bored girl had just wandered in. The bald, fat man might be looking to lose weight and gain hair. Who knew?
But what about himself? Ianto tries to think of something important he could be in need of curing. Perhaps he could just claim curiosity.
Van Der Valk fades away and the slide of the Balti Buffet chunks off. There is a blue screen, a fizzing, and then, of all wonders, an old VHS tape projects into life. The picture crackles, crackles, wobbles and then slow tracking snow drifts down the screen. With an abrupt final crackle, the feature starts. For a brief instant, Ianto is in darkness and about to see Indiana Jones with his father sat on his right, a small bucket of popcorn balanced between them and an orange ice lolly melting stickily over his knuckles.
The picture goes white, and a reassuring logo of cupped hands rising up around a globe appears. Synthesised music swells out, a tune of energy and warmth that sounds just like (and yet, for copyright reasons completely unlike) the theme from Top Gear.
A smooth voice pours over shots that track across an empty hospital ward, a crowded waiting room, and then through a garden where people of all ages walk in the sun. The tone is warm, upbeat and strident.
‘Welcome to Hope. We’ve got used to living in an age of miracles. Where the cure for everything is just around the corner. But what if you can’t wait until tomorrow? Well, we’re here to tell you about how we can offer you the medicine of tomorrow today. This is not a trial. This is not a placebo. This is real hope, a real cure – the stuff of dreams. What we are offering on this boat is not legal, but it is moral. We refuse to keep back a cure that works. This is not alternative therapy, homeopathy, or moonshine – this is the real thing. We’ve worked on a genetic therapy that offers real, rapid repairs of your DNA…’
At this point the screen moves from sunsets and a hopeful woman boiling a kettle while staring wistfully out of her kitchen window to exciting computer graphics of spinning molecules and then some science stuff of cells dividing. Ianto frowns, and sneaks a glance around the cinema. He was right – someone’s come in. Standing at the back of the room are a man and a woman. Both of them startlingly good looking. They exude health, prosperity and well-being. Their arms are linked and they stand watching the screen with rapt, smiling attention. Ianto recognises the woman from the newspaper article. He immediately decides they are involved. The woman catches his glance and smiles at him. Ianto does what he always does when a beautiful woman smiles at him across a room. He blushes and looks away and feels about fourteen.
‘… Our swift, non-invasive procedure is over in minutes, has no side effects, and the difference can be felt at once. We offer this treatment here on the Hope Boat as it is illegal in Britain. Rejected by the NHS as impossible to test and too expensive, we are only too happy to offer it here, in international waters. Simply sign up after this seminar, and a visit will be made to your cabin in the morning. Then, you can relax and enjoy a day’s sightseeing on the Emerald Isle, followed by a revolutionary cure on the voyage back to Cardiff. It’s that easy. And this treatment can work on all sorts of genetic ailments – from simple male-pattern baldness all the way through to cancer. We can make you better. No,’ a warm smile in the voice, ‘we will make you better.’
The picture changes to a warmly setting sun watched by a couple on a beach. And then fades to black.
The lights come on, together with a slide advertising the wide range of gnomes available in the duty-free shop. People stand up. The old couple look at each other, and squeeze each other’s hands. The beautiful people at the back have already left.
‘Well,’ thinks Ianto, munching on his cold popcorn, ‘that was the fishiest thing in the Irish Sea.’
‘And then?’ asked Gwen.
‘I signed up, and had a lovely day sightseeing,’ said Ianto. ‘I think I took loads of photos on my phone. The weather was a bit drab, but the girls were great fun.’
‘The girls? Lucky Debbie and Easy Kerry.’ Jack’s mockery was fond and only a little bit jealous. ‘Let me guess. You went drinking?’
Ianto shook his head. ‘Actually, we went to the zoo, a nice little tea shop, and Kerry found some rare editions she’d been hunting after for ages in an antiquarian bookstore.’
It’s late afternoon in a Dublin pub with a great view of the rain. Ianto reels. Lucky Debbie grabs hold of him. ‘Easy, tiger!’ She ruffles his hair and helps him sit down. All around him, the wooden panels of the Dublin bar start to spin slowly.
Ianto shakes his head, and scowls. ‘I’m tired.’ He is much drunker than he intended to be.
Debbie grins and pinches his cheek. ‘You pass out, and Kerry will pounce. I’ve experience of that girl. Don’t give in to weakness.’
Ianto runs a hand through his hair. ‘Debbie, I’m hammered. I’m trying to do really important work here, and my head’s pounding. I have no idea what was in the meal we’ve just eaten, but three fingers of scotch aren’t helping anything. I just want a nap.’
Kerry staggers back from the ladies, giggling. There is a small trail of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe. She sits down opposite Ianto with a whumpf! and then pitches gently into an uneasy sleep on an open packet of pork scratchings.
Ianto squints a little to bring the table into focus. Spread across it are the slumbering remains of Debbie’s hen party. Through a forest of half-finished pints and abandoned pies he can see Debbie, who winks at him. ‘You’ll be fine, doll. What is this top secret mishun? You really a spy?’
Ianto shakes his head. ‘Oh no. I’m just the office boy, really. But… you know… I’m keeping an eye out. For a friend. Well, not really a friend – more a bastard, really. But he died. And it’s easy to remember someone fondly if they’re dead. Especially when they died twice, if you’re counting. Twice dead bastard.’ He giggles.
Debbie is nodding with the slightly glassy look of someone who isn’t even listening.
Ianto ventures on. ‘And Owen thought there was something wrong about the boat. And he was right – I think there’s some alien medical procedure taking place on that boat. And that’s never good. And I’m supposed to stay sober on a mission. But then I think I’m being followed. So, I decide to blend in by getting drunk with you. Which may not have been the wisest thing. So it’s Ianto Jones, secret agent, saving the Cardiff Ferry from an alien invasion, just a little bit legless. So yes, I guess in many ways it’s oh dear.’ He takes an ill-advised swig of his pint and grimaces. ‘Oh, this is going down like sick.’ He rests the glass on the table hurriedly. ‘Anyway – I’m very important. I’m saving Cardiff.’
Debbie nods again and pats his hand. ‘Phil was shagging Kerry a couple of months ago,’ she says, quietly.
Many hours later, they stagger onto the boat for the journey back. Kerry is throwing up into a bin to the disgust of customs officials. Debbie has a spring in her step and flashing plastic devil horns in her hair. Ianto is carrying a traffic cone.
He makes it back to his tiny little orange cabin and slumps down on the lower bunk, the traffic cone resting unsteadily by him. He sinks his head in his hands. ‘I am so hammered,’ he thinks sadly. ‘I’ve had a brilliant weekend, clearly. I haven’t let my hair down in ages. But I haven’t really saved the world.’