Free Risk Assessment by James Goss Page A

mind me dragging you out and getting you drunk?’
    ‘Not at all!’ Agnes laughed. Around them the Bay was filling up, as the residents realised it wasn’t going to rain after all, and so decided to make the most of a reasonable evening, wandering from bar to restaurant to bar, sitting wrapped up outside to smoke in the icy air, or crammed up against a variety of over-designed tables.
    Agnes looked around and sighed. ‘Oh dear, I sound most approving of all of this debauch. I must tell you, I think there is nothing sadder than the belief that a good time can be had solely with alcoholic beverages and associating with people of only the very lowest sort.’
    ‘Quite right,’ said Gwen and they clinked glasses.
    They smiled at each other across the table.
    ‘Pump away, dear friend,’ said Agnes.
    ‘Well, you were a proper Torchwood agent?’
    Agnes nodded solemnly. ‘Absolutely.’
    ‘Well. . . how did your parents feel about you joining Torchwood. I mean, surely. . .’
    ‘Oh. . .’ Agnes looked melancholy for a second. ‘Best not, dear Mrs Cooper. Ask me another.’
    ‘It’s just. . . Well, you’re not in the computer.’
    Agnes wagged a mildly drunken finger. ‘Naughty Mrs Cooper. But of course I’m not. Well, I am, but you see. . . Agnes Havisham isn’t my real name.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Gwen.
    ‘Ah. Late 1901 it was, when the chamber was finally prepared. When I became the Assessor, it was decided to leave all that behind. After all, if I have a past, how can I control the future?’
    ‘That’s a bit. . . pompous?’
    ‘Ah.’ Agnes tapped the side of her nose. ‘It was a pronouncement of Victoria Regina herself.’
    ‘You knew her?’ Gwen gasped.
    ‘Oh, just a little, and she was as mad as a box of March hares by then. . . but yes. Frighteningly intimidating woman. And, wherever she went, the rustle rustle rustle of all those skirts. And the smell of naphtha. Actually, underneath all the starch and cobwebs, she had a wicked sense of humour. She let me pick my own name. . . and it was either Agnes Havisham or Betsey Trotwood.’
    ‘But your real name. . .?’
    ‘Ohhh,’ Agnes sighed, and pushed a hand through her hair. ‘It’s so long ago and I don’t think it matters to anyone. It was just one more thing to give up in the line of duty.’
    ‘Well,’ said Gwen. ‘You are remarkable.’
    ‘Why thank you, but that’s not a question.’
    ‘That’s not quite what I meant. You see. . . you come from a time when independent women were few and far between. . . you know.’
    ‘Oh, dashed Florence and her blessed lamp!’
    ‘Exactly. And yet. . . you. . .’
    ‘Fought monsters and foiled conspiracies and blew really big things to smithereens. The real thing, you might say!’
    ‘Yes. But what made you give it up? I mean, to assign yourself to. . . well, leaving your entire life behind, to living out history?’
    ‘Ohhhhhhh, the big one.’ Agnes stared at the glass in front of her and sighed. ‘Every time I sleep, it seems I wake up in another time. . . and I feel more and more out of my depth. Especially now that Jack tells me that I’m alone. That you three are all that remains of Torchwood. It really. . .’ She drained the glass, banged it on the table, and suddenly stared sharply at Gwen. ‘I did it for love, you know.’
    ‘Really?’ Gwen smiled. ‘It’s just that Love and Torchwood aren’t exactly. . .’
    ‘Well, exactly. Oh, don’t worry, my dear, he didn’t die. . . no, it was worse.’ Agnes settled back in her chair, and begin to fiddle with the placemats. ‘You see, he was. . . George Herbert Sanderson. He was a brilliant young scientist at Torchwood. A brain to be protected. And we were very much in love. However, he was working on a stardrive that had been recovered from a ship. And, believe it or not, he repaired it. He even managed to work out the planet of origin. A distant world of riches and wonders who were in need of assistance. And he asked permission to