Fic Commentary: Coming back (part 1)
Aug. 20th, 2007 04:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jadesfireWritten for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ficcommentary. In two parts, because brevity is not my strong point.
This was the story when I knew I had a series on my hands. Jack and I were getting on great, and the OCs had good, strong voices in my head. I didn't plan on getting to 85,000+ words, but these things happen.
The original story is now here
I've commented on the header as well, as it all works together...
Title: Coming Back
Titles are very important to me. Like![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_barks, I believe quite firmly that stories 'tell me' what they want to be called. Normally this involves leaning back in the chair and staring into space for a while, but it counts as writing, honest. I generally try to pin down the theme of the story, the one big thing that I want to get across. And in this case, it was obvious.
Author:jadesfire2808
Word Count: ~9200 ~12,500 with commentary, and therefore split into two parts.
Warnings/Rating: PG but nothing worse than you'd see on Torchwood
Spoilers: None that I could spot for Torchwood but I guess technically for "Parting of the Ways" The commentary has spoilers for most of S1 of Torchwood, as well as S3 of Doctor Who
Summary: Working for Torchwood doesn't exactly turn out as Jack had hoped.
A/N: The second of six stories exploring what Jack did between being left on Satellite Five and Torchwood S1. The Doctor Who episode referenced in this is the 7th Doctor story "The Curse of Fenric." Jack belongs to the BBC etc. Jock, Hugh and the rest are mine.
Thanks tocrystalshard who helped put flesh on the bones of the story. And then some. Seriously, this woman has beta'd every word of my massive series, and didn't let me get away with anything along the way. She suggested reshaping this and it worked so much better afterwards.
Coming Back
12th February 1955. Torchwood House, Scotland.
Jack loved standing on the battlements. From up there, he could see for miles, feel the wind whipping at his hair and the exhilarating cold of being up so high. When the mist rolled in, it always felt like being enveloped in cloth, smothering and enclosing and he would retreat back inside. But as soon as the wind came up, driving the fog and rain away, he would climb the stairs again and look out on the bleak landscape.
I should say right at the start that I love playing with clichés. I love taking them and doing something different with them, seeing what happens. But this one, I felt needed explaining – Torchwood Jack spends a hell of a lot of time being broody on tall buildings. I figure he's always been like that, plus it made a great opening visual.
Today, he was looking for more than just the feeling of being alive. It would rain later, he could tell, and the visibility was already shrinking, so he heard rather than saw the cars approaching. By the time he could make them out, they were almost at the gates, and he had to run to get there first.
Hugh Jones pulled the car to a stop, nodding a greeting to Jack, who was already opening the passenger door.
“Jock!”
“Jack!” They both laughed, as they always did, at how silly their greetings sounded, and Jack clasped the outstretched hand, shaking it warmly.
Jock (and Hugh Jones) were introduced in the first story of the series, but neither had much of a role. This is where they started to come to life. Jock, incidentally, is a nickname – his initials are GG ->gee gee->horse->jockey->Jock. Trust me, I've heard more random ones, although I've no idea why I thought this would be a good idea. Having three main characters called Jack, Jock and Jones is a recipe for tying disaster…
“How was your trip?” he asked, helping the other man with his bags.
“Bumpy. The vans are right behind us. Got some good stuff for you this time.”
“Glad to hear it. If I have to convince the staff not to file one more piece of suspicious glass that came from a suspicious window broken by a suspicious vandal, I may have to start breaking bones for them to file instead. Come on inside.”
Jack led the way, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. Coming down was a pretty young woman, warmly dressed in jumper and tweed skirt. She smiled when she saw them and Jack gave a half-bow.
I spent too much time going through the Torchwood website, trying to work out who would have had ownership of the house. Finally I settled on an OC family, the Franklins, who take over the house when the owning family dies out. For a story this kind of length, I'll do maybe 5 to 6 hours of research and reading, and then about 10% of the information makes it in. But I firmly believe that knowing all the other stuff makes a huge difference to the texture of my writing.
“Jock, this is Sarah Franklin. Her family have been caretakers of the house since the time of Queen Victoria herself. Sarah, I believe you’ve met Major Gordon Goody?”
“Yes, at a reception in London.” The girl held out a hand, which Jock took.
“I’m flattered that you remember me, Miss Franklin. I trust Jack doesn’t inconvenience you too much.”
“Oh, we manage somehow.” She glanced at Jack with a smile. “I’m not here very much. This is just a routine checking-up visit.”
“Make sure we haven’t left finger marks on the silver, things like that,” Jack added. “Are you joining us for dinner tonight?”
“No, I’m getting Mal to drive me to the station and then taking the sleeper back to town. Good to have seen you, Major Goody. Jack.” With a final nod, she disappeared down a side passage.
“Come on,” Jack said, as Jock was still staring at the door. “I’ll show you to your room.”
I didn't want her flirting with Jack too much. This was very much a plot driven story and I needed to keep it moving.
One of the things that still bugs me about this story are the POV switches. I didn't think I had much choice, not at the beginning, anyway, but I really wish I'd tried harder. They're fairly clear, but it's still something I prefer not to do where possible.
Dinner was a relaxed affair, with most of the staff joining in. There were twelve of them round the table as well as the van drivers, all talking earnestly to each other, almost exclusively about work. Jock found himself next to a serious young man, whose primary function seemed to be looking at photographs.
“One day,” he was saying, “there ought to be a way to mechanise the process. Have some kind of readings taken from a sample photograph, feed them into the machine and have it do the looking for you. It could save months of work.”
Jock nodded in what he hoped were all the right places, trying to keep track as the conversation became increasingly technical. Across the table, he could see Jack laughing with some of the others, a good-looking young man and a striking blonde girl.
I have a list of names for all the staff at Torchwood House, as well as what their specialties are. Only a few of them are mentioned by name, but these things matter.
They retired to a warm library, where Jack dispensed drinks, cigars and cigarettes as demanded, and generally kept the conversation flowing until, one by one, the others disappeared, leaving him and Jock alone.
“You,” Jock said, pointing with his cigar, “did that on purpose.”
“Ronnie’s got some very interesting ideas. I wanted to make sure that gets back to Torchwood London.”
“And make sure I didn’t get to meet any of the girls.”
“Are you that short of them down south?”
“The country’s not. I was talking about me.” Jock took a sip of brandy, sinking further into his chair. “I didn’t even get the chance to share a drink with Sarah Franklin.”
“Now that is definitely your loss.” Jack was refilling his glass. By Jock’s count, he’d had four glasses of wine with dinner, and that had to be at least his third brandy. But if he was tight, he was hiding it well. Noticing Jock’s look, Jack grinned. “I can hold it. Don’t worry.”
I'm not sure that anyone uses 'tight' for 'drunk' anymore, so it was important for establishing the character's voice and the period. I don't usually have Jack drinking in my stories, and I'm not quite sure where I was going with the idea that he has a good head for it. I may have had something in mind, but I never did anything with it!
“I worry about you and that gorgeous creature alone in this house on long winter nights. Colonel Harding’d have your hide if he thought-”
“Oh for God’s sake, Jock, give it a rest.” Jack put the decanter down with a thump. “She’s a grown woman and more capable of looking after herself than you are.”
“Are you saying that you and she…” Jock trailed off, and Jack shook his head.
“No. What I’m saying is that as long as the work gets done, Torchwood London should mind its own damn business.”
I didn't want Jack to be happy with the period attitudes to sex and relationships. He's not going to come right out and say it yet, but this sets up the bit further down.
“You are our business, Jack.” Looking down, Jock swirled the amber liquid, watching the light play across it. “You’re doing a good job up here.”
“I’ve been up here over a year now, Jock.” Dropping into the chair on the other side of the fireplace, Jack took a long swig of his drink. “One damn year of filing and training and reading and generally doing as I’m told. If I’d known I was signing up for a year of wind, rain and boredom, I’d have let you shoot me.”
Inserting back story while telling us about the characters.
“You did more with these people in six months than we’d managed in four years. Harding knows that and so do I. You’ve not been forgotten.”
“But I’m not trusted.” Jack’s voice was flat and emotionless.
“Jack.” Trying not to sigh, Jock drained the last of his drink, setting the glass carefully on the side table. “It’s not that simple. You know there are…problems…with your record. Do a good job up here, and most of that’s going to be forgotten.”
“What’s the latest problem?” Jack asked, not looking up.
“Harding’s found some photographs of you from before your time with the RAF.”
“So?”
“Jack, I’m not talking about months before. I’m talking about from before the Great War. You’re there. Don’t give me any rubbish about it being an ancestor, a father or some massive co-incidence. It’s you, in uniform, in 1909. Looking exactly as you do now.”
This is a reference to the Torchwood episode "Small Worlds". I don't want Torchwood to come across as stupid or ignorant – they can do their research, now that they know who they're looking for. These pictures turn up on the Torchwood Hub site, so I thought they'd have possession of them. Plus I needed the tension between Jock and Jack, to show Jack's restlessness and Jock's frustration at his friend.
“Co-incidences happen,” Jack mumbled, staring at his drink.
“Not like this. Give Harding time. Give him more of what he needs. Trust us first.”
Jack shook his head.
“It’s not that simple.”
“I know.” Pushing himself out of the chair, Jock headed for the door. “I brought some good stuff, this time. Can’t wait to see what you make of it.” When he got no reply, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. Goodnight, Jack.”
He left Jack sitting by the dying fire, watching the flames dance in the reflection on his brandy glass.
POV switch again. Still not happy with it…
The next morning, Jack found Jock in his office, searching through one of the desk drawers.
“Can I help you?”
Startled, Jock slammed the drawer shut, catching his finger.
“Damn it, Jack. Give a chap some warning, would you?”
"Chap" is a very Jock word.
Jack grinned. “You’re the one going through my desk. What are you looking for?”
“A pencil.” Jock sat on the chair, examining the end of his finger.
“They should be in the middle drawer. The housekeeper, Mrs Garrow, put some there yesterday.” Coming round the desk, Jack pulled the drawer open. “Huh.”
“See? Unless something ate them, I’d say you’ve got a thief.”
“Stealing pencils is hardly a big deal. I just don’t know why anyone would bother. There’s a stationery cupboard just down the corridor.”
Jock tilted his head. “And yet Mrs Garrow fills up your supply personally.”
This scene does two things. It sets up the idea of random objects going missing and also Jack's place with the other members of staff. Plus I liked the idea of the housekeeper fussing over him, trying feed him and making sure his desk is supplied with pencils.
“She likes me.” Jack pushed the drawer shut with a bang. “Have you had any breakfast?”
The dining room was as informal as the night before, with everyone helping themselves from a long table against the wall and sitting where they wanted. Jock avoided his dinner companion, taking a seat next to one of the other men.
“It’s Peter, isn’t it?” he asked, helping himself to coffee.
“Peter Kennings.” He held out a hand which Jack shook
“Gordon Goody, but most people call me Jock.”
“I won’t ask.”
Jock shook his head laughing. “It’s not as entertaining as it sounds, I’m afraid. How long have you worked here?”
Peter thought for a moment, his large brown eyes narrowing. “It must be nearly three years now.”
“You pre-date Jack, then.”
He nodded. “We all do, except Doug over there.” He pointed with his spoon to a thin, serious-looking man across the table.
“How have you found the changes?" Jock asked. "I mean, I know Jack can take a bit of getting used to.”
Jock's English. He's good at understatement. I also wanted him trying to ask about Jack without actually asking about him. This is more info-dump through character, something that I always enjoy doing.
“He’s had Mrs Garrow on his side since the day he arrived, and the rest of us go in terror of her.” Peter shook his head, smiling. “Seriously, he’s brought life to the place. I don’t know where he gets so much energy from, but it’s made a real difference. You can even see it in Sarah.”
“Miss Franklin?”
Peter nodded. “She’s only here a few months of the year, but she always goes away smiling now. She used to seem, well, so sad. This place holds a lot of bad memories for her, I think. It’s good to see them banished.”
“Bad memories?” Jock reached for the sugar, not looking away from Peter. The young man looked nervous for a moment, glancing round the room. Everyone was deep in conversation or contemplation of their breakfast. When his eyes fell on Jack, Peter paused for a moment and Jock saw something different pass across his face. There goes another one, he thought, giving an encouraging nod when the young man turned back to him.
I wanted to keep this ambiguous – Jock knows the effect Jack has on people, whether it's fancying him or just wanting to be around him.
“I’m not sure how common knowledge it is,” he said, lowering his voice. “Her father fell from the battlements during a storm. She was just a bairn, but it’s got to have an effect on you, something like that. Most of us think there’s something wrong with the place. And Queen Victoria was a regular visitor until 1880 when she just suddenly stopped coming. Something happened, I think. Something to do with the telescope. Anyway, Jack’s done a lot for Sarah.” He looked down at his plate. “He’s done a lot for us all.”
The "Queen Victoria" bit is a reference to the Doctor Who episode "Tooth and Claw". This gets across all the reader needs to know about that.
I read someone's comment (if it was you, please tell me so I can credit you!) that one of the reasons Jack is sexy is that he finds everyone else sexy. He genuinely doesn't care what's on the outside, and he's more about what's interesting than just what's pretty. And even if the person's not interested, I think he has a way of just making people feel better about themselves. It's something he's kind of lost by the time we get to Torchwood, which is one of the reasons I wanted it here. Part of the point of the series was to show how he got from Doctor Who-Jack to Torchwood-Jack, so I had to set up the contrast.
“Jock!”
Jock looked up, seeing Jack watching them from the other end of the table.
“When you’re done interrogating my staff, they’re just dying to know what you brought them.”
POV switch *headdesk*
It took well over two hours to unload the boxes from all three vans. Jack took his part in carrying them in, assigning them to different people and finally giving the last box of papers to Peter.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to come up with too many new categories for these,” he said. “We’re running out of drawers.”
“How are you for space?” Jock asked as the others headed off.
“Pressed as ever. I think we may need to explore taking over the cellars. Sarah won’t like it, but I don’t see where else we can go.”
“They think the world of you, you know,” Jock said quietly, as they watched, Ronnie, Peggy and Doug, struggling with a huge box. Ronnie and Peggy were arguing amicably as they manoeuvred it up the stairs, while Doug seemed focussed on his task, frowning as the others bickered.
When Jack gave him a curious look, Jock went on, “Oh yes, I’ve been interrogating them as thoroughly as they’ve interrogated me. Peggy made a point of saying what a good job you’re doing, while Doug told me about the project you’ve been helping him with. I didn’t know advanced mathematics was your field.”
But what's advanced for 1955 could well be school stuff for Jack. I wanted to press the idea that although he's doing his job and doing it well, he's essentially isolated here.
“It’s not, really. I just gave him some encouragement.” Jack said, crossing his arms. “Is this your way of telling me that I’m invaluable here and you can’t afford to move me?”
Jock shrugged. “If I thought it would settle you down, then yes. I was actually trying to be supportive.”
“Support me to Harding. That might help settle me down.” The last three words were delivered in an imitation of Jock’s crisp accent, making him wince.
“We went over this last night.”
“Yes we did.” Jack shook himself a little, unfolding his arms and turning to Jock. “So where’s the really good stuff? There’s always something.”
“Am I really that predictable?” Seeing Jack’s face, Jock went on quickly, “Actually, don’t answer that. Jones is bringing the box in from the car now. Let’s look at it in your office.”
The box was smaller than most of the others. Hugh had opened it and was setting out even smaller boxes on the table.
I decided I had to call him 'Hugh' in the narrative, because 3 main characters beginning with 'J' was confusing me too much.
“Didn’t see you at dinner last night, Hugh,” Jack said, coming over to look.
“I ate with Mrs Garrow in the kitchen, sir. Did me very well, thank you.”
“As you like.” Jack rubbed his hands together. “So what did you bring me this time?”
“It’s a chess set, sir.” Hugh opened one of the small boxes, lifting out a pawn. Giving Jock a puzzled look, Jack took the piece, holding it up to the light.
“And what’s so special about this chess set?”
Hugh glanced at Jock, who nodded for him to explain.
“It was found in a village near Maiden’s Point in Northumbria.”
Jack looked up sharply. “Maiden’s Point?” he repeated, picking up another chessman. “That sounds familiar.”
“The ULTIMA affair,” Jock reminded him. “You’ve got some pieces of the computer here.”
This is the Seventh Doctor story "The Curse of Fenric" which I had just finished researching for my Buffy crossover story, and seemed to fit nicely here.
“He was there.” Still gripping the chess men, Jack slowly sank into one of the chairs round the table. “He used these.”
“Yes,” Jock said softly, “he did. We’re not entirely sure of the circumstances, but our witnesses say this chess set was important in the resolution of the problem. There’s nothing magical or mystical or transdimensional about them. Jones just thought you might like them, that’s all,” he finished, rather awkwardly.
Bless. The whole 'Englishmen express their feelings' thing is never going to flow nicely.
Jack nodded, his throat tight. It wouldn’t have been him, Jack was fairly sure about that. And it had been over twelve years since they’d served whatever important purpose he’d wanted them for. But sitting, gripping these small pieces of wood, Jack felt he’d moved another tiny step along the way. Swallowing hard, he returned the chess men to their box and looked up at Hugh Jones.
This series is called the waiting years for a reason. The 'slow path' theme is one that's going to come up a lot, but I set it up here
“Thank you.”
“Any time, sir.” With a nod to Jock, Hugh left as silently as he always did. It took Jack a moment to recover himself, trying to push back all the confusion that the simple gift had brought to the surface. It was suddenly suffocating, the sensation of loss and bitterness that filled his mind, driving out all other thoughts. He shook his head, trying to clear it, all too aware of Jock’s worried look.
This is an interesting hint at what's going to come later. When I wrote it, I didn't realise it was going to become important. I just put it in, then realised near the end why it was there. I find that my subconscious is much better at plotting than I am, so tend to just trust it and get on with the story.
“You alright, Jack?”
“Fine.” The word came out as a whisper, and he got to his feet in a rush. The movement helped, the adrenaline driving away the overwhelming feeling of abandonment. Jock caught his arm.
“You don’t look it.”
“Really, it’s just,” Jack paused, looking back at the chess set.
Jock nodded, understanding. “I know. Sorry and all that.”
*pats Jock on the shoulder* He's trying, bless him. Jock has a great voice, very different to Jack's and I love writing him.
Without thinking, Jack covered Jock’s hand with his.
Again with the differences.
“Thanks,” he said, only becoming aware after a moment of Jock’s tense expression. The amusement was enough to rid him of the last of the despair, and he gave a little squeeze before letting go, grinning as Jock took a step backwards, straightening his tie.
Coughing a little, Jock glanced at his watch, ostentatiously surprised by the time.
“Well,” he said, “shall we go and see how the others are getting on?”
POV…oh you get the idea…
Three days later, Jock was gaining a new appreciation for Jack’s patience. Falling into a chair at the end of another mind-numbing day of sorting, cataloguing and filing, he was grateful to have adopted the local habit of casual dress. Trying to do all this in suit jacket and tie would have been stifling.
He accepted with thanks the glass that Jack gave him, watching as the other man took a seat opposite.
“You barely look tired,” he noted.
Jack shrugged. “It’s a good impression.”
“Do you sleep at all?”
“When I can.”
In "Day One", Jack tells Gwen that he doesn't sleep. Then in "Small Worlds", he has a bad dream while apparently asleep in bed. I've found my own work-round to make this fit, but mostly I stick to the 'he doesn't sleep' theory.
“Only, my room’s next door to yours and I’m a light sleeper. I haven’t heard you come in once since we’ve been here.”
“I move quietly.” Jack took a sip of drink. “You were right, it is good stuff that you brought us. I think Doug may actually have smiled, and the last time he did that, the earth split in two with shock.”
“He does seem a rather serious young man.”
“He’s got his reasons to be private.”
Jock looked up sharply, catching something in the tone of Jack’s voice.
“Please don’t tell me what I think you’re telling me.”
“Oh come on, not that again. You people are obsessed.” Jack pointed his now empty glass across the room. “How many more Turings is it going to take before you sort yourselves out?”
I have a think about Bletchley Park. There was a drama-biography on television when I was young, starring Derek Jacobi as Alan Turing, and it made a huge impression on me. I deliberately set this story soon after his death, so that it would be a relevant statement.
Jock shifted in his seat. “Even so, Jack. This is not a conversation we can have. These are not things I can know if I’ve got to make a report to Harding. You know that.”
It's not so much that Jock's disapproving, it's more that he's aware of his position and duty. I don't think he cares very much, for himself. It's more that there are things that aren't done and there are things he has to do. They both know it, and I liked the tension it put between them.
“Yeah, I know.” Jack tipped his head back, resting it on the chair. “You’ll be going home tomorrow. It’ll all go quiet again.”
“Soon, perhaps, maybe you can…well…” Jock trailed off under Jack’s withering stare.
“Do you want to equivocate that a bit more for me? Cos I don’t want to get any false hopes up here.”
This time, Jock stayed quiet.
“It’ll be dinner soon,” Jack said at last. “I’ll go see if Mrs Garrow’s got any more coal for the fire.”
When he didn’t return after ten minutes, Jock went hunting for him. He found several of the staff in the hallway, exchanging worried looks and holding whispered conversations.
This is where I start to switch from 'slow build' and 'subtle hint' mode to 'get the plot done' mode. I've set up the characters, I've set up the situation, everyone knows what's going on, so we can shift into story-telling.
“What’s going on?” he asked the gathering in general. Doug turned towards him, his pale face almost white.
“The coal’s gone and the cellar’s empty. There’s some in our rooms, but the rest has vanished. There’s stuff missing from the kitchen too”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Jock protested. “It’s not like the boy next door’s been round and pinched it. Where’s Jack?”
“He and Hugh have gone looking,” Peter told him. “Though what they’re reckoning to find, I’ve no idea.”
Before Jock could reply, the front door opened, blowing in an icy chill along with the rain. With it came Jack and Hugh, both soaked to the skin. Jack accepted Peter’s help with his coat, shaking his wet hair and scattering drops across the hall. Hugh took both coats away, and Jock saw something pass between the two men. Hugh nodded and disappeared down the corridor to the kitchen.
I swear, at this point, I had no idea how important a character Hugh was going to become. But Jack always needs a Ianto equivalent.
“There’s no sign of any cars or intruders. Nothing at all.” Jack looked round the group. “I’ve got Mrs Garrow putting us some food together. We’ll eat in the library tonight. It’s a smaller room, easier to heat. I want you men to all bunk in together, same for the girls.” He held up his hands to stall the tide of protests. “Until we know what’s going on, I don’t want anyone going off alone. Peggy’s in the kitchen with Mrs Garrow and she’ll share with her. Jock, you and Hugh will have to share. We’ll eat now and turn in early, so go get the rooms set up. Peter, Jock, you’re with me.”
This is Jack going into boss-mode. I object to him being made to look bad at his job – there's a tendency in Torchwood fic for Ianto to be the efficient one and Jack to be disorganised. I don't believe it for a minute, although that doesn't stop me enjoying the stories. But he's a different man by the time we get to Torchwood Three, and the mistakes he makes are the result of what these years put him through. Here, I wanted him to be efficient and in charge.
He set off down the corridor without looking back. Jock trailed after him, getting no help at all from Peter, who was also hurrying to keep up with Jack’s stride. As they turned the corner, Jock heard the jingle of keys, and saw Jack opening a door that he hadn’t noticed before.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Armoury,” Peter told him, still watching Jack. “What are we going to do, Jack?”
“Protect ourselves.” Jack led the way into a small, dark room, little more than a large cupboard. The shelves around the walls were full of wooden boxes of all sizes, from which Jack selected three, putting them on a small table by the door. “Peter, you’ve had the most practice with these. I want you to find Peggy and Megan, show them how to use them. I want one in each dorm tonight.”
The weapons he produced were shaped like normal guns, but Jock knew better. He’d only seen them on file at Torchwood London, and had only read the report of what they could do.
“Jack, don’t you think you’re over-reacting?” he asked, eying the pistol nervously.
“Not yet I’m not.” Jack produced a rather smaller gun from another box, handing it to Jock. “Take this. I want us to be ready for anything. Go on, Peter. Find the girls.”
When they were alone, Jock turned to Jack.
“I really think this is a bit much. You don’t even know what’s going on. And why has Peter had more practice than the others?”
Again, this sets up a bit more of a relationship between Jack and Peter. One of the thingscrystalshard told me to change was the role of these minor characters. We have to care about them, be able to recognise them, if the later part is going to work.
“Extra tuition. And no, I don’t know what’s going on, but do you think that’s a good reason for not being ready?” Jack opened the last and smallest box, producing something that was much more familiar to Jock. It was a Webley, the typical service revolver. Jock had seen plenty of them since the war. Jack loaded it quickly, putting it in its holster, and attaching it to his belt. Only then did he look at Jock properly.
Of course, he becomes surgically attached to it during Torchwood, but I liked the idea of this being where it started.
“I’ve got things disappearing, people having nightmares – Megan, Doug and Mary and they’re just the ones I know about,” he added, seeing that Jock was about to ask. “I also happen to be in a building that’s chock-full of alien artefacts and information. In this kind of situation, I don’t think it’s possible to overreact, do you?” When he got no reply, he nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. Now let me show you how to use this.”
This scene has absolutely no point except to increase the tension. Jack's getting out the guns, we find out more backstory and suddenly things are going pearshaped…
And here I switch to and stay with Jack. Where I'm much happier and the flow is much better.
In contrast to usual, dinner was a quiet meal, and Jack could almost taste the tension in the air. He was vaguely aware of Jock to his right, talking softly to some of the women, trying to offer what reassurance was available. Jack’s attention was on Doug, who was talking about his dreams.
“There were so many things there, creatures or people or something like that. And they were screaming at me, shouting for me to give them something, but I didn’t know what.”
“It’s alright.” Jack put a hand on Doug’s arm, trying to get him to calm down. “Just tell me what they looked like. What they felt like.”
“They were cold,” Doug said at once. “Like fog. They were sort of shaped like people, only not quite, like they didn’t know what they were supposed to look like. They kept reaching towards me and I kept running away, trying not to let them touch me. They wanted me for something.” His voice was rising in pitch, drawing curious stares from the others.
“It was just a dream, Doug.” Jack leant towards the other man, trying to get him to look into his eyes. “Just a dream. It’s not important.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Doug jumped to his feet, making everyone turn towards him. “Don’t lie to us, Jack! Tell us what’s happening!” He knocked his chair over as he moved backwards. “There’s something here, isn’t there? Tell us what to do!”
It's a requirement in Haunted House stories that someone have hysterics at some point. I think there's a law or something…
Jack waited for a moment, watching as Doug’s hysteria subsided. Then he got went over, putting a hand on Doug’s shoulder, soothing him.
“Yes, I think there’s something here. I don’t know what it is and I don’t know what it wants, but I’m going to find out. That goes for all of you.” He looked round the group, meeting the wide, frightened eyes that were turned towards him. “You have to trust me.” Turning back to Doug, he put a hand under the young man’s chin, forcing him to look up. “Trust me. It’s going to be fine.”
Never trust anyone who says 'trust me'. But I also wanted to establish Doug's character and the fact that they all look to Jack, who mostly uses force of personality to lead.
Jock sought Jack out over coffee.
“That was quite the display,” he said. “Is he always like that?”
“Sometimes. He’s a bit highly strung, that’s all.” When Jock continued his questioning stare, Jack sighed. “He was in London during the Blitz. The house came down on top of him and his mother. He was trapped with her dead body for nearly twelve hours. They had to drag him out, screaming.”
“My God.” Jock shuddered.
“He’s brilliant. One of our best analysts. He just needs a bit of looking after, that’s all.” Jack put his coffee cup down, and checked everyone was settled. “Stay with them for me, Jock. Hugh and I are going to have another look round.”
“Of course.” Jock put a hand on Jack’s arm, squeezing gently. “You’re doing a good job, Jack.”
Jack nodded and headed for the door, drawing Hugh into his wake as he went.
This scene didn't exist in the first draft, butcrystalshard said that I needed it and she was right.
It was pointless to try and search outside again, Jack knew. The wind and the rain were coming down so strongly that any evidence would be washed away, and all they were likely to get for their trouble was a soaking. Instead, he led Hugh through the empty corridors of the house, peering into open doorways and turning on all the lights he could find.
Because I object to my heroes being dim and walking into a dark room with only a torch for light.
“Bit of a waste, isn’t it, sir?” Hugh asked, watching as Jack turned up one of the old gas lamps.
“A lot can hide in the dark, Hugh. I’m making it harder for them.”
Jack has seen too many horror films.
“What do you think’s hiding?” Hugh asked and Jack shrugged. He’d been asking himself the same question all night without reaching a conclusion.
“There’s something here, I can feel it. There’s a psychic edge to it, though.” Jack frowned, an irrelevance suddenly becoming significant. “Earlier on, when you gave me that chess set? I felt something; something more than I should have felt.”
“That’s a little cryptic, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“It’s bit cryptic to me.” Jack ran his hand along the oak panelling, as though he could pick up answers from the walls. “I just know what I felt.”
I like it when things you don't realise are important suddenly become a clue.
“What was that?”
Jack paused. Before he could put words round the thought, there was a soft, fluttering noise that seemed to fill the air. Hugh looked at him and Jack shook his head, drawing his gun. They moved slowly down the corridor, eyes moving from floor to ceiling and back again. It sounded as though someone had let a bat into the house, and right at that moment, Jack would have been grateful for something so benign.
[Non-story note: bats in houses are not benign. They are dive-bombing menaces who appear and disappear without warning and seem to have a supernatural ability to get through closed doors. They are particularly alarming in low ceilinged bedrooms and can interrupt the most well-ordered of honeymoons.]
As they turned the corner, Jack heard Hugh swear under his breath. This corridor led only to the staircase to the upper bedrooms, with a single lamp on a side table for light. At first, looking towards the window at the end of the corridor, Jack thought the wind must have died away and the fog had come up again, then he realised that what he’d taken for mist was actually closer, in the house with them.
The visual on this nearly killed me. I could see it so clearly, but had to really struggle for the words to put round it. I think the effort was worth it though, to give an impression without swamping with detail. I also don't think I've ever been so grateful for English having the world's largest vocabulary, as I needed more synonyms for 'mist', 'column' and 'swirling' than I knew existed.
He took a step towards it, ignoring the warning noise that Hugh made. It wasn’t mist, he could see now; it was more like rising dust, swirling particles moved by a wind that he couldn’t feel. They whirled and spun in the air, rising to head height and coalescing, forming a denser cloud. Jack took another step forwards, reaching out a hand towards it. The dust cloud moved towards him, becoming more solid by the second.
“Sir?” Hugh’s voice was strained. “Jack?”
“It’s alright.” Jack held out his hand, palm towards the cloud. There was a moment of stillness, the sound of fluttering dying away as the haze of particles seemed to stop in mid-air. Then the sound rose again, louder than before, and the cloud moved towards Jack again, engulfing his hand. It was a column now, as tall and broad as him. He felt the same overwhelming sensation that he’d had before, the feeling of all his emotions being dragged to the surface of his mind and held there. The sensation was exhilarating and crushing and unbearable and he didn’t want it to stop.
I love this kind of sentence. I tend to write in a very smooth, ordered way (or try to) with the pacing carefully controlled. This last sentence uses the form as much as the words to get the sensations across, which lets me show how Jack feels without having to tell too much.
Then there was an excruciating pain in his hand, driving the feelings away and replacing them with heat and agony. Gasping, he pulled his hand out of the cloud, staggering back a few steps and falling against Hugh.
“What the hell just happened?” One arm wrapped around Jack’s waist, Hugh was looking from him to the end of the corridor. Following his gaze, Jack realised that the pillar had collapsed, leaving a pile of dust on the floor. The pain in his hand was subsiding, as was the aftershock of the mental assault, and he braced himself against Hugh’s shoulder, managing to push himself upright again. Hugh let him go, taking a few steps forwards and leaning over to look at the remains, while Jack examined his hand. There were dozens of tiny red marks on it, as though something had stuck pins in him, hard. It had almost felt like that too.
That last sentence is a bit tacked on, but the rest of it is fine. We go from being tight inside Jack's head, back to one that's slightly more removed, so that we can see what's going on. The contrast of the emotional and the physical wasn't intentional, but I think it works.
Hugh was prodding the pile of dust with the end of his gun.
“It’s just dust,” he said at last, sounding vaguely disappointed.
“I’ll send Mrs Garrow up with a broom then, shall I?” Jack said absently, turning his hand over slowly. In his wide experience, he’d been prodded and poked and stabbed and shot and all the things in between and he was having trouble placing exactly what this had felt like. The pain had been terrible for that brief moment and his fingers still ached.
One of the pin-pricks in the centre of his palm was larger than the others and a single drop of blood was working its way down towards his wrist. Bringing it to his mouth, almost absently, he remembered what the sensation had reminded him of. There’d been that trip to, well, he couldn’t remember exactly where, but there had been a hell of a lot of injections and the medics hadn’t all been as careful or as well trained as they might have been. He hadn’t been able to sit down properly for days. This had been like getting all those shots, and more, in a single agonising moment.
Too much telling here, I think. I could have got the two paragraphs down into one shorter one, although then I might have had to lose the "hadn't been able to sit down" line, which would have been a shame.
He glanced up to see Hugh giving him a concerned look.
“Come on,” he said, holstering his gun again and giving the pile of dust a last look. “Let’s get back to the others. And, Hugh, don’t mention this to them, ok?”
Part Two
ficcommentary. In two parts, because brevity is not my strong point.This was the story when I knew I had a series on my hands. Jack and I were getting on great, and the OCs had good, strong voices in my head. I didn't plan on getting to 85,000+ words, but these things happen.
The original story is now here
I've commented on the header as well, as it all works together...
Title: Coming Back
Titles are very important to me. Like
nightdog_barks, I believe quite firmly that stories 'tell me' what they want to be called. Normally this involves leaning back in the chair and staring into space for a while, but it counts as writing, honest. I generally try to pin down the theme of the story, the one big thing that I want to get across. And in this case, it was obvious.Author:
jadesfire2808Word Count: ~9200 ~12,500 with commentary, and therefore split into two parts.
Warnings/Rating: PG but nothing worse than you'd see on Torchwood
Spoilers: None that I could spot for Torchwood but I guess technically for "Parting of the Ways" The commentary has spoilers for most of S1 of Torchwood, as well as S3 of Doctor Who
Summary: Working for Torchwood doesn't exactly turn out as Jack had hoped.
A/N: The second of six stories exploring what Jack did between being left on Satellite Five and Torchwood S1. The Doctor Who episode referenced in this is the 7th Doctor story "The Curse of Fenric." Jack belongs to the BBC etc. Jock, Hugh and the rest are mine.
Thanks to
crystalshard who helped put flesh on the bones of the story. And then some. Seriously, this woman has beta'd every word of my massive series, and didn't let me get away with anything along the way. She suggested reshaping this and it worked so much better afterwards.Coming Back
12th February 1955. Torchwood House, Scotland.
Jack loved standing on the battlements. From up there, he could see for miles, feel the wind whipping at his hair and the exhilarating cold of being up so high. When the mist rolled in, it always felt like being enveloped in cloth, smothering and enclosing and he would retreat back inside. But as soon as the wind came up, driving the fog and rain away, he would climb the stairs again and look out on the bleak landscape.
I should say right at the start that I love playing with clichés. I love taking them and doing something different with them, seeing what happens. But this one, I felt needed explaining – Torchwood Jack spends a hell of a lot of time being broody on tall buildings. I figure he's always been like that, plus it made a great opening visual.
Today, he was looking for more than just the feeling of being alive. It would rain later, he could tell, and the visibility was already shrinking, so he heard rather than saw the cars approaching. By the time he could make them out, they were almost at the gates, and he had to run to get there first.
Hugh Jones pulled the car to a stop, nodding a greeting to Jack, who was already opening the passenger door.
“Jock!”
“Jack!” They both laughed, as they always did, at how silly their greetings sounded, and Jack clasped the outstretched hand, shaking it warmly.
Jock (and Hugh Jones) were introduced in the first story of the series, but neither had much of a role. This is where they started to come to life. Jock, incidentally, is a nickname – his initials are GG ->gee gee->horse->jockey->Jock. Trust me, I've heard more random ones, although I've no idea why I thought this would be a good idea. Having three main characters called Jack, Jock and Jones is a recipe for tying disaster…
“How was your trip?” he asked, helping the other man with his bags.
“Bumpy. The vans are right behind us. Got some good stuff for you this time.”
“Glad to hear it. If I have to convince the staff not to file one more piece of suspicious glass that came from a suspicious window broken by a suspicious vandal, I may have to start breaking bones for them to file instead. Come on inside.”
Jack led the way, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. Coming down was a pretty young woman, warmly dressed in jumper and tweed skirt. She smiled when she saw them and Jack gave a half-bow.
I spent too much time going through the Torchwood website, trying to work out who would have had ownership of the house. Finally I settled on an OC family, the Franklins, who take over the house when the owning family dies out. For a story this kind of length, I'll do maybe 5 to 6 hours of research and reading, and then about 10% of the information makes it in. But I firmly believe that knowing all the other stuff makes a huge difference to the texture of my writing.
“Jock, this is Sarah Franklin. Her family have been caretakers of the house since the time of Queen Victoria herself. Sarah, I believe you’ve met Major Gordon Goody?”
“Yes, at a reception in London.” The girl held out a hand, which Jock took.
“I’m flattered that you remember me, Miss Franklin. I trust Jack doesn’t inconvenience you too much.”
“Oh, we manage somehow.” She glanced at Jack with a smile. “I’m not here very much. This is just a routine checking-up visit.”
“Make sure we haven’t left finger marks on the silver, things like that,” Jack added. “Are you joining us for dinner tonight?”
“No, I’m getting Mal to drive me to the station and then taking the sleeper back to town. Good to have seen you, Major Goody. Jack.” With a final nod, she disappeared down a side passage.
“Come on,” Jack said, as Jock was still staring at the door. “I’ll show you to your room.”
I didn't want her flirting with Jack too much. This was very much a plot driven story and I needed to keep it moving.
One of the things that still bugs me about this story are the POV switches. I didn't think I had much choice, not at the beginning, anyway, but I really wish I'd tried harder. They're fairly clear, but it's still something I prefer not to do where possible.
Dinner was a relaxed affair, with most of the staff joining in. There were twelve of them round the table as well as the van drivers, all talking earnestly to each other, almost exclusively about work. Jock found himself next to a serious young man, whose primary function seemed to be looking at photographs.
“One day,” he was saying, “there ought to be a way to mechanise the process. Have some kind of readings taken from a sample photograph, feed them into the machine and have it do the looking for you. It could save months of work.”
Jock nodded in what he hoped were all the right places, trying to keep track as the conversation became increasingly technical. Across the table, he could see Jack laughing with some of the others, a good-looking young man and a striking blonde girl.
I have a list of names for all the staff at Torchwood House, as well as what their specialties are. Only a few of them are mentioned by name, but these things matter.
They retired to a warm library, where Jack dispensed drinks, cigars and cigarettes as demanded, and generally kept the conversation flowing until, one by one, the others disappeared, leaving him and Jock alone.
“You,” Jock said, pointing with his cigar, “did that on purpose.”
“Ronnie’s got some very interesting ideas. I wanted to make sure that gets back to Torchwood London.”
“And make sure I didn’t get to meet any of the girls.”
“Are you that short of them down south?”
“The country’s not. I was talking about me.” Jock took a sip of brandy, sinking further into his chair. “I didn’t even get the chance to share a drink with Sarah Franklin.”
“Now that is definitely your loss.” Jack was refilling his glass. By Jock’s count, he’d had four glasses of wine with dinner, and that had to be at least his third brandy. But if he was tight, he was hiding it well. Noticing Jock’s look, Jack grinned. “I can hold it. Don’t worry.”
I'm not sure that anyone uses 'tight' for 'drunk' anymore, so it was important for establishing the character's voice and the period. I don't usually have Jack drinking in my stories, and I'm not quite sure where I was going with the idea that he has a good head for it. I may have had something in mind, but I never did anything with it!
“I worry about you and that gorgeous creature alone in this house on long winter nights. Colonel Harding’d have your hide if he thought-”
“Oh for God’s sake, Jock, give it a rest.” Jack put the decanter down with a thump. “She’s a grown woman and more capable of looking after herself than you are.”
“Are you saying that you and she…” Jock trailed off, and Jack shook his head.
“No. What I’m saying is that as long as the work gets done, Torchwood London should mind its own damn business.”
I didn't want Jack to be happy with the period attitudes to sex and relationships. He's not going to come right out and say it yet, but this sets up the bit further down.
“You are our business, Jack.” Looking down, Jock swirled the amber liquid, watching the light play across it. “You’re doing a good job up here.”
“I’ve been up here over a year now, Jock.” Dropping into the chair on the other side of the fireplace, Jack took a long swig of his drink. “One damn year of filing and training and reading and generally doing as I’m told. If I’d known I was signing up for a year of wind, rain and boredom, I’d have let you shoot me.”
Inserting back story while telling us about the characters.
“You did more with these people in six months than we’d managed in four years. Harding knows that and so do I. You’ve not been forgotten.”
“But I’m not trusted.” Jack’s voice was flat and emotionless.
“Jack.” Trying not to sigh, Jock drained the last of his drink, setting the glass carefully on the side table. “It’s not that simple. You know there are…problems…with your record. Do a good job up here, and most of that’s going to be forgotten.”
“What’s the latest problem?” Jack asked, not looking up.
“Harding’s found some photographs of you from before your time with the RAF.”
“So?”
“Jack, I’m not talking about months before. I’m talking about from before the Great War. You’re there. Don’t give me any rubbish about it being an ancestor, a father or some massive co-incidence. It’s you, in uniform, in 1909. Looking exactly as you do now.”
This is a reference to the Torchwood episode "Small Worlds". I don't want Torchwood to come across as stupid or ignorant – they can do their research, now that they know who they're looking for. These pictures turn up on the Torchwood Hub site, so I thought they'd have possession of them. Plus I needed the tension between Jock and Jack, to show Jack's restlessness and Jock's frustration at his friend.
“Co-incidences happen,” Jack mumbled, staring at his drink.
“Not like this. Give Harding time. Give him more of what he needs. Trust us first.”
Jack shook his head.
“It’s not that simple.”
“I know.” Pushing himself out of the chair, Jock headed for the door. “I brought some good stuff, this time. Can’t wait to see what you make of it.” When he got no reply, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. Goodnight, Jack.”
He left Jack sitting by the dying fire, watching the flames dance in the reflection on his brandy glass.
POV switch again. Still not happy with it…
The next morning, Jack found Jock in his office, searching through one of the desk drawers.
“Can I help you?”
Startled, Jock slammed the drawer shut, catching his finger.
“Damn it, Jack. Give a chap some warning, would you?”
"Chap" is a very Jock word.
Jack grinned. “You’re the one going through my desk. What are you looking for?”
“A pencil.” Jock sat on the chair, examining the end of his finger.
“They should be in the middle drawer. The housekeeper, Mrs Garrow, put some there yesterday.” Coming round the desk, Jack pulled the drawer open. “Huh.”
“See? Unless something ate them, I’d say you’ve got a thief.”
“Stealing pencils is hardly a big deal. I just don’t know why anyone would bother. There’s a stationery cupboard just down the corridor.”
Jock tilted his head. “And yet Mrs Garrow fills up your supply personally.”
This scene does two things. It sets up the idea of random objects going missing and also Jack's place with the other members of staff. Plus I liked the idea of the housekeeper fussing over him, trying feed him and making sure his desk is supplied with pencils.
“She likes me.” Jack pushed the drawer shut with a bang. “Have you had any breakfast?”
The dining room was as informal as the night before, with everyone helping themselves from a long table against the wall and sitting where they wanted. Jock avoided his dinner companion, taking a seat next to one of the other men.
“It’s Peter, isn’t it?” he asked, helping himself to coffee.
“Peter Kennings.” He held out a hand which Jack shook
“Gordon Goody, but most people call me Jock.”
“I won’t ask.”
Jock shook his head laughing. “It’s not as entertaining as it sounds, I’m afraid. How long have you worked here?”
Peter thought for a moment, his large brown eyes narrowing. “It must be nearly three years now.”
“You pre-date Jack, then.”
He nodded. “We all do, except Doug over there.” He pointed with his spoon to a thin, serious-looking man across the table.
“How have you found the changes?" Jock asked. "I mean, I know Jack can take a bit of getting used to.”
Jock's English. He's good at understatement. I also wanted him trying to ask about Jack without actually asking about him. This is more info-dump through character, something that I always enjoy doing.
“He’s had Mrs Garrow on his side since the day he arrived, and the rest of us go in terror of her.” Peter shook his head, smiling. “Seriously, he’s brought life to the place. I don’t know where he gets so much energy from, but it’s made a real difference. You can even see it in Sarah.”
“Miss Franklin?”
Peter nodded. “She’s only here a few months of the year, but she always goes away smiling now. She used to seem, well, so sad. This place holds a lot of bad memories for her, I think. It’s good to see them banished.”
“Bad memories?” Jock reached for the sugar, not looking away from Peter. The young man looked nervous for a moment, glancing round the room. Everyone was deep in conversation or contemplation of their breakfast. When his eyes fell on Jack, Peter paused for a moment and Jock saw something different pass across his face. There goes another one, he thought, giving an encouraging nod when the young man turned back to him.
I wanted to keep this ambiguous – Jock knows the effect Jack has on people, whether it's fancying him or just wanting to be around him.
“I’m not sure how common knowledge it is,” he said, lowering his voice. “Her father fell from the battlements during a storm. She was just a bairn, but it’s got to have an effect on you, something like that. Most of us think there’s something wrong with the place. And Queen Victoria was a regular visitor until 1880 when she just suddenly stopped coming. Something happened, I think. Something to do with the telescope. Anyway, Jack’s done a lot for Sarah.” He looked down at his plate. “He’s done a lot for us all.”
The "Queen Victoria" bit is a reference to the Doctor Who episode "Tooth and Claw". This gets across all the reader needs to know about that.
I read someone's comment (if it was you, please tell me so I can credit you!) that one of the reasons Jack is sexy is that he finds everyone else sexy. He genuinely doesn't care what's on the outside, and he's more about what's interesting than just what's pretty. And even if the person's not interested, I think he has a way of just making people feel better about themselves. It's something he's kind of lost by the time we get to Torchwood, which is one of the reasons I wanted it here. Part of the point of the series was to show how he got from Doctor Who-Jack to Torchwood-Jack, so I had to set up the contrast.
“Jock!”
Jock looked up, seeing Jack watching them from the other end of the table.
“When you’re done interrogating my staff, they’re just dying to know what you brought them.”
POV switch *headdesk*
It took well over two hours to unload the boxes from all three vans. Jack took his part in carrying them in, assigning them to different people and finally giving the last box of papers to Peter.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to come up with too many new categories for these,” he said. “We’re running out of drawers.”
“How are you for space?” Jock asked as the others headed off.
“Pressed as ever. I think we may need to explore taking over the cellars. Sarah won’t like it, but I don’t see where else we can go.”
“They think the world of you, you know,” Jock said quietly, as they watched, Ronnie, Peggy and Doug, struggling with a huge box. Ronnie and Peggy were arguing amicably as they manoeuvred it up the stairs, while Doug seemed focussed on his task, frowning as the others bickered.
When Jack gave him a curious look, Jock went on, “Oh yes, I’ve been interrogating them as thoroughly as they’ve interrogated me. Peggy made a point of saying what a good job you’re doing, while Doug told me about the project you’ve been helping him with. I didn’t know advanced mathematics was your field.”
But what's advanced for 1955 could well be school stuff for Jack. I wanted to press the idea that although he's doing his job and doing it well, he's essentially isolated here.
“It’s not, really. I just gave him some encouragement.” Jack said, crossing his arms. “Is this your way of telling me that I’m invaluable here and you can’t afford to move me?”
Jock shrugged. “If I thought it would settle you down, then yes. I was actually trying to be supportive.”
“Support me to Harding. That might help settle me down.” The last three words were delivered in an imitation of Jock’s crisp accent, making him wince.
“We went over this last night.”
“Yes we did.” Jack shook himself a little, unfolding his arms and turning to Jock. “So where’s the really good stuff? There’s always something.”
“Am I really that predictable?” Seeing Jack’s face, Jock went on quickly, “Actually, don’t answer that. Jones is bringing the box in from the car now. Let’s look at it in your office.”
The box was smaller than most of the others. Hugh had opened it and was setting out even smaller boxes on the table.
I decided I had to call him 'Hugh' in the narrative, because 3 main characters beginning with 'J' was confusing me too much.
“Didn’t see you at dinner last night, Hugh,” Jack said, coming over to look.
“I ate with Mrs Garrow in the kitchen, sir. Did me very well, thank you.”
“As you like.” Jack rubbed his hands together. “So what did you bring me this time?”
“It’s a chess set, sir.” Hugh opened one of the small boxes, lifting out a pawn. Giving Jock a puzzled look, Jack took the piece, holding it up to the light.
“And what’s so special about this chess set?”
Hugh glanced at Jock, who nodded for him to explain.
“It was found in a village near Maiden’s Point in Northumbria.”
Jack looked up sharply. “Maiden’s Point?” he repeated, picking up another chessman. “That sounds familiar.”
“The ULTIMA affair,” Jock reminded him. “You’ve got some pieces of the computer here.”
This is the Seventh Doctor story "The Curse of Fenric" which I had just finished researching for my Buffy crossover story, and seemed to fit nicely here.
“He was there.” Still gripping the chess men, Jack slowly sank into one of the chairs round the table. “He used these.”
“Yes,” Jock said softly, “he did. We’re not entirely sure of the circumstances, but our witnesses say this chess set was important in the resolution of the problem. There’s nothing magical or mystical or transdimensional about them. Jones just thought you might like them, that’s all,” he finished, rather awkwardly.
Bless. The whole 'Englishmen express their feelings' thing is never going to flow nicely.
Jack nodded, his throat tight. It wouldn’t have been him, Jack was fairly sure about that. And it had been over twelve years since they’d served whatever important purpose he’d wanted them for. But sitting, gripping these small pieces of wood, Jack felt he’d moved another tiny step along the way. Swallowing hard, he returned the chess men to their box and looked up at Hugh Jones.
This series is called the waiting years for a reason. The 'slow path' theme is one that's going to come up a lot, but I set it up here
“Thank you.”
“Any time, sir.” With a nod to Jock, Hugh left as silently as he always did. It took Jack a moment to recover himself, trying to push back all the confusion that the simple gift had brought to the surface. It was suddenly suffocating, the sensation of loss and bitterness that filled his mind, driving out all other thoughts. He shook his head, trying to clear it, all too aware of Jock’s worried look.
This is an interesting hint at what's going to come later. When I wrote it, I didn't realise it was going to become important. I just put it in, then realised near the end why it was there. I find that my subconscious is much better at plotting than I am, so tend to just trust it and get on with the story.
“You alright, Jack?”
“Fine.” The word came out as a whisper, and he got to his feet in a rush. The movement helped, the adrenaline driving away the overwhelming feeling of abandonment. Jock caught his arm.
“You don’t look it.”
“Really, it’s just,” Jack paused, looking back at the chess set.
Jock nodded, understanding. “I know. Sorry and all that.”
*pats Jock on the shoulder* He's trying, bless him. Jock has a great voice, very different to Jack's and I love writing him.
Without thinking, Jack covered Jock’s hand with his.
Again with the differences.
“Thanks,” he said, only becoming aware after a moment of Jock’s tense expression. The amusement was enough to rid him of the last of the despair, and he gave a little squeeze before letting go, grinning as Jock took a step backwards, straightening his tie.
Coughing a little, Jock glanced at his watch, ostentatiously surprised by the time.
“Well,” he said, “shall we go and see how the others are getting on?”
POV…oh you get the idea…
Three days later, Jock was gaining a new appreciation for Jack’s patience. Falling into a chair at the end of another mind-numbing day of sorting, cataloguing and filing, he was grateful to have adopted the local habit of casual dress. Trying to do all this in suit jacket and tie would have been stifling.
He accepted with thanks the glass that Jack gave him, watching as the other man took a seat opposite.
“You barely look tired,” he noted.
Jack shrugged. “It’s a good impression.”
“Do you sleep at all?”
“When I can.”
In "Day One", Jack tells Gwen that he doesn't sleep. Then in "Small Worlds", he has a bad dream while apparently asleep in bed. I've found my own work-round to make this fit, but mostly I stick to the 'he doesn't sleep' theory.
“Only, my room’s next door to yours and I’m a light sleeper. I haven’t heard you come in once since we’ve been here.”
“I move quietly.” Jack took a sip of drink. “You were right, it is good stuff that you brought us. I think Doug may actually have smiled, and the last time he did that, the earth split in two with shock.”
“He does seem a rather serious young man.”
“He’s got his reasons to be private.”
Jock looked up sharply, catching something in the tone of Jack’s voice.
“Please don’t tell me what I think you’re telling me.”
“Oh come on, not that again. You people are obsessed.” Jack pointed his now empty glass across the room. “How many more Turings is it going to take before you sort yourselves out?”
I have a think about Bletchley Park. There was a drama-biography on television when I was young, starring Derek Jacobi as Alan Turing, and it made a huge impression on me. I deliberately set this story soon after his death, so that it would be a relevant statement.
Jock shifted in his seat. “Even so, Jack. This is not a conversation we can have. These are not things I can know if I’ve got to make a report to Harding. You know that.”
It's not so much that Jock's disapproving, it's more that he's aware of his position and duty. I don't think he cares very much, for himself. It's more that there are things that aren't done and there are things he has to do. They both know it, and I liked the tension it put between them.
“Yeah, I know.” Jack tipped his head back, resting it on the chair. “You’ll be going home tomorrow. It’ll all go quiet again.”
“Soon, perhaps, maybe you can…well…” Jock trailed off under Jack’s withering stare.
“Do you want to equivocate that a bit more for me? Cos I don’t want to get any false hopes up here.”
This time, Jock stayed quiet.
“It’ll be dinner soon,” Jack said at last. “I’ll go see if Mrs Garrow’s got any more coal for the fire.”
When he didn’t return after ten minutes, Jock went hunting for him. He found several of the staff in the hallway, exchanging worried looks and holding whispered conversations.
This is where I start to switch from 'slow build' and 'subtle hint' mode to 'get the plot done' mode. I've set up the characters, I've set up the situation, everyone knows what's going on, so we can shift into story-telling.
“What’s going on?” he asked the gathering in general. Doug turned towards him, his pale face almost white.
“The coal’s gone and the cellar’s empty. There’s some in our rooms, but the rest has vanished. There’s stuff missing from the kitchen too”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Jock protested. “It’s not like the boy next door’s been round and pinched it. Where’s Jack?”
“He and Hugh have gone looking,” Peter told him. “Though what they’re reckoning to find, I’ve no idea.”
Before Jock could reply, the front door opened, blowing in an icy chill along with the rain. With it came Jack and Hugh, both soaked to the skin. Jack accepted Peter’s help with his coat, shaking his wet hair and scattering drops across the hall. Hugh took both coats away, and Jock saw something pass between the two men. Hugh nodded and disappeared down the corridor to the kitchen.
I swear, at this point, I had no idea how important a character Hugh was going to become. But Jack always needs a Ianto equivalent.
“There’s no sign of any cars or intruders. Nothing at all.” Jack looked round the group. “I’ve got Mrs Garrow putting us some food together. We’ll eat in the library tonight. It’s a smaller room, easier to heat. I want you men to all bunk in together, same for the girls.” He held up his hands to stall the tide of protests. “Until we know what’s going on, I don’t want anyone going off alone. Peggy’s in the kitchen with Mrs Garrow and she’ll share with her. Jock, you and Hugh will have to share. We’ll eat now and turn in early, so go get the rooms set up. Peter, Jock, you’re with me.”
This is Jack going into boss-mode. I object to him being made to look bad at his job – there's a tendency in Torchwood fic for Ianto to be the efficient one and Jack to be disorganised. I don't believe it for a minute, although that doesn't stop me enjoying the stories. But he's a different man by the time we get to Torchwood Three, and the mistakes he makes are the result of what these years put him through. Here, I wanted him to be efficient and in charge.
He set off down the corridor without looking back. Jock trailed after him, getting no help at all from Peter, who was also hurrying to keep up with Jack’s stride. As they turned the corner, Jock heard the jingle of keys, and saw Jack opening a door that he hadn’t noticed before.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Armoury,” Peter told him, still watching Jack. “What are we going to do, Jack?”
“Protect ourselves.” Jack led the way into a small, dark room, little more than a large cupboard. The shelves around the walls were full of wooden boxes of all sizes, from which Jack selected three, putting them on a small table by the door. “Peter, you’ve had the most practice with these. I want you to find Peggy and Megan, show them how to use them. I want one in each dorm tonight.”
The weapons he produced were shaped like normal guns, but Jock knew better. He’d only seen them on file at Torchwood London, and had only read the report of what they could do.
“Jack, don’t you think you’re over-reacting?” he asked, eying the pistol nervously.
“Not yet I’m not.” Jack produced a rather smaller gun from another box, handing it to Jock. “Take this. I want us to be ready for anything. Go on, Peter. Find the girls.”
When they were alone, Jock turned to Jack.
“I really think this is a bit much. You don’t even know what’s going on. And why has Peter had more practice than the others?”
Again, this sets up a bit more of a relationship between Jack and Peter. One of the things
crystalshard told me to change was the role of these minor characters. We have to care about them, be able to recognise them, if the later part is going to work.“Extra tuition. And no, I don’t know what’s going on, but do you think that’s a good reason for not being ready?” Jack opened the last and smallest box, producing something that was much more familiar to Jock. It was a Webley, the typical service revolver. Jock had seen plenty of them since the war. Jack loaded it quickly, putting it in its holster, and attaching it to his belt. Only then did he look at Jock properly.
Of course, he becomes surgically attached to it during Torchwood, but I liked the idea of this being where it started.
“I’ve got things disappearing, people having nightmares – Megan, Doug and Mary and they’re just the ones I know about,” he added, seeing that Jock was about to ask. “I also happen to be in a building that’s chock-full of alien artefacts and information. In this kind of situation, I don’t think it’s possible to overreact, do you?” When he got no reply, he nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. Now let me show you how to use this.”
This scene has absolutely no point except to increase the tension. Jack's getting out the guns, we find out more backstory and suddenly things are going pearshaped…
And here I switch to and stay with Jack. Where I'm much happier and the flow is much better.
In contrast to usual, dinner was a quiet meal, and Jack could almost taste the tension in the air. He was vaguely aware of Jock to his right, talking softly to some of the women, trying to offer what reassurance was available. Jack’s attention was on Doug, who was talking about his dreams.
“There were so many things there, creatures or people or something like that. And they were screaming at me, shouting for me to give them something, but I didn’t know what.”
“It’s alright.” Jack put a hand on Doug’s arm, trying to get him to calm down. “Just tell me what they looked like. What they felt like.”
“They were cold,” Doug said at once. “Like fog. They were sort of shaped like people, only not quite, like they didn’t know what they were supposed to look like. They kept reaching towards me and I kept running away, trying not to let them touch me. They wanted me for something.” His voice was rising in pitch, drawing curious stares from the others.
“It was just a dream, Doug.” Jack leant towards the other man, trying to get him to look into his eyes. “Just a dream. It’s not important.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Doug jumped to his feet, making everyone turn towards him. “Don’t lie to us, Jack! Tell us what’s happening!” He knocked his chair over as he moved backwards. “There’s something here, isn’t there? Tell us what to do!”
It's a requirement in Haunted House stories that someone have hysterics at some point. I think there's a law or something…
Jack waited for a moment, watching as Doug’s hysteria subsided. Then he got went over, putting a hand on Doug’s shoulder, soothing him.
“Yes, I think there’s something here. I don’t know what it is and I don’t know what it wants, but I’m going to find out. That goes for all of you.” He looked round the group, meeting the wide, frightened eyes that were turned towards him. “You have to trust me.” Turning back to Doug, he put a hand under the young man’s chin, forcing him to look up. “Trust me. It’s going to be fine.”
Never trust anyone who says 'trust me'. But I also wanted to establish Doug's character and the fact that they all look to Jack, who mostly uses force of personality to lead.
Jock sought Jack out over coffee.
“That was quite the display,” he said. “Is he always like that?”
“Sometimes. He’s a bit highly strung, that’s all.” When Jock continued his questioning stare, Jack sighed. “He was in London during the Blitz. The house came down on top of him and his mother. He was trapped with her dead body for nearly twelve hours. They had to drag him out, screaming.”
“My God.” Jock shuddered.
“He’s brilliant. One of our best analysts. He just needs a bit of looking after, that’s all.” Jack put his coffee cup down, and checked everyone was settled. “Stay with them for me, Jock. Hugh and I are going to have another look round.”
“Of course.” Jock put a hand on Jack’s arm, squeezing gently. “You’re doing a good job, Jack.”
Jack nodded and headed for the door, drawing Hugh into his wake as he went.
This scene didn't exist in the first draft, but
crystalshard said that I needed it and she was right.It was pointless to try and search outside again, Jack knew. The wind and the rain were coming down so strongly that any evidence would be washed away, and all they were likely to get for their trouble was a soaking. Instead, he led Hugh through the empty corridors of the house, peering into open doorways and turning on all the lights he could find.
Because I object to my heroes being dim and walking into a dark room with only a torch for light.
“Bit of a waste, isn’t it, sir?” Hugh asked, watching as Jack turned up one of the old gas lamps.
“A lot can hide in the dark, Hugh. I’m making it harder for them.”
Jack has seen too many horror films.
“What do you think’s hiding?” Hugh asked and Jack shrugged. He’d been asking himself the same question all night without reaching a conclusion.
“There’s something here, I can feel it. There’s a psychic edge to it, though.” Jack frowned, an irrelevance suddenly becoming significant. “Earlier on, when you gave me that chess set? I felt something; something more than I should have felt.”
“That’s a little cryptic, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“It’s bit cryptic to me.” Jack ran his hand along the oak panelling, as though he could pick up answers from the walls. “I just know what I felt.”
I like it when things you don't realise are important suddenly become a clue.
“What was that?”
Jack paused. Before he could put words round the thought, there was a soft, fluttering noise that seemed to fill the air. Hugh looked at him and Jack shook his head, drawing his gun. They moved slowly down the corridor, eyes moving from floor to ceiling and back again. It sounded as though someone had let a bat into the house, and right at that moment, Jack would have been grateful for something so benign.
[Non-story note: bats in houses are not benign. They are dive-bombing menaces who appear and disappear without warning and seem to have a supernatural ability to get through closed doors. They are particularly alarming in low ceilinged bedrooms and can interrupt the most well-ordered of honeymoons.]
As they turned the corner, Jack heard Hugh swear under his breath. This corridor led only to the staircase to the upper bedrooms, with a single lamp on a side table for light. At first, looking towards the window at the end of the corridor, Jack thought the wind must have died away and the fog had come up again, then he realised that what he’d taken for mist was actually closer, in the house with them.
The visual on this nearly killed me. I could see it so clearly, but had to really struggle for the words to put round it. I think the effort was worth it though, to give an impression without swamping with detail. I also don't think I've ever been so grateful for English having the world's largest vocabulary, as I needed more synonyms for 'mist', 'column' and 'swirling' than I knew existed.
He took a step towards it, ignoring the warning noise that Hugh made. It wasn’t mist, he could see now; it was more like rising dust, swirling particles moved by a wind that he couldn’t feel. They whirled and spun in the air, rising to head height and coalescing, forming a denser cloud. Jack took another step forwards, reaching out a hand towards it. The dust cloud moved towards him, becoming more solid by the second.
“Sir?” Hugh’s voice was strained. “Jack?”
“It’s alright.” Jack held out his hand, palm towards the cloud. There was a moment of stillness, the sound of fluttering dying away as the haze of particles seemed to stop in mid-air. Then the sound rose again, louder than before, and the cloud moved towards Jack again, engulfing his hand. It was a column now, as tall and broad as him. He felt the same overwhelming sensation that he’d had before, the feeling of all his emotions being dragged to the surface of his mind and held there. The sensation was exhilarating and crushing and unbearable and he didn’t want it to stop.
I love this kind of sentence. I tend to write in a very smooth, ordered way (or try to) with the pacing carefully controlled. This last sentence uses the form as much as the words to get the sensations across, which lets me show how Jack feels without having to tell too much.
Then there was an excruciating pain in his hand, driving the feelings away and replacing them with heat and agony. Gasping, he pulled his hand out of the cloud, staggering back a few steps and falling against Hugh.
“What the hell just happened?” One arm wrapped around Jack’s waist, Hugh was looking from him to the end of the corridor. Following his gaze, Jack realised that the pillar had collapsed, leaving a pile of dust on the floor. The pain in his hand was subsiding, as was the aftershock of the mental assault, and he braced himself against Hugh’s shoulder, managing to push himself upright again. Hugh let him go, taking a few steps forwards and leaning over to look at the remains, while Jack examined his hand. There were dozens of tiny red marks on it, as though something had stuck pins in him, hard. It had almost felt like that too.
That last sentence is a bit tacked on, but the rest of it is fine. We go from being tight inside Jack's head, back to one that's slightly more removed, so that we can see what's going on. The contrast of the emotional and the physical wasn't intentional, but I think it works.
Hugh was prodding the pile of dust with the end of his gun.
“It’s just dust,” he said at last, sounding vaguely disappointed.
“I’ll send Mrs Garrow up with a broom then, shall I?” Jack said absently, turning his hand over slowly. In his wide experience, he’d been prodded and poked and stabbed and shot and all the things in between and he was having trouble placing exactly what this had felt like. The pain had been terrible for that brief moment and his fingers still ached.
One of the pin-pricks in the centre of his palm was larger than the others and a single drop of blood was working its way down towards his wrist. Bringing it to his mouth, almost absently, he remembered what the sensation had reminded him of. There’d been that trip to, well, he couldn’t remember exactly where, but there had been a hell of a lot of injections and the medics hadn’t all been as careful or as well trained as they might have been. He hadn’t been able to sit down properly for days. This had been like getting all those shots, and more, in a single agonising moment.
Too much telling here, I think. I could have got the two paragraphs down into one shorter one, although then I might have had to lose the "hadn't been able to sit down" line, which would have been a shame.
He glanced up to see Hugh giving him a concerned look.
“Come on,” he said, holstering his gun again and giving the pile of dust a last look. “Let’s get back to the others. And, Hugh, don’t mention this to them, ok?”
Part Two