+ all these editions of you + part one

Gene’s already thinking about the Scotch he’s gonna have at the Railway Arms. Not his usual, cheaper one, but definitely a single malt, twelve years old maybe, or even better sixteen, if Nelson has some. There’s no particular reason or date to celebrate, but Gene’s always been of the idea that sometimes you should allow yourself the luxury of giving in to temptation, not too often, mind you, but just enough so that you can face all the crappy days God throws at you. But the door bursts open and in storms DI Sam Tyler, his personal, nasty headache. Gene sighs loudly as his single malt fades away in the distance. He leans back and latches his fingers behind his head, bracing himself for another of those usual speeches about whatever’s just crawled up Tyler’s arse. Normally, he stops listening the second Tyler opens his mouth, and only tunes in when important words turn up, like ‘murder’, or ‘pub’. From the affronted look on Sam’s face this is going to be long. The Scotch is now only a vague memory. “You,” Sam says, slamming his hand on the desk and pointing a finger at him, menacingly, “had no right!” Gene presses his lips together and thinks about it, but as far as he’s concerned he’s got a right to everything he does. Not for the first time he wonders why he puts up with the effing pain in the arse otherwise known as Sam bloody Tyler. Then he thinks about two days ago and remembers. Oh, right. And now Sammy-boy is confused, and a little suspicious maybe. “Why are you smiling?” “Just picturin’ you naked,” he grins, then gestures with his hand. “Don’t mind me, do carry on.” Sam gives him a disgusted look, like he isn’t the one of the kinky sex and the handcuffs. He doesn’t comment though and continues. “The Super’s filed a transfer at your request.” Gene frowns. “Since when does the Super listen to me?” And he certainly doesn’t remember requesting anything from him, the only times he’s voiced his feelings on the subject have been in the pub, with more than a few beers in his body and the percentage of swear words greatly surpassing that of the regular ones. Somehow, though, he’s sure that if the Super ever witnessed one of those, Gene would be the one with a transfer. “The transfer is for me, you arrogant bastard!” Sam yells and slams his hands down on the desktop. Gene sits up straighter and frowns. “What? I never-” He had, though, but it’s been months and he’s completely forgotten. Until now. “I filed that request shortly after you arrived, I didn’t remember…” he trails off. Sam shakes his head. “But why?” Gene snorts. “Oh, that I remember, and it shouldn’t be too hard for you to figure it out. I seem to recall somebody always whining about wanting to go home,” he says and Sam has the grace to look ashamed. “I got tired of it, Tyler. We’re a police station, not a bloody nursery school!” Gladys, of course, never knows what’s good for him and instead of shutting up, he retorts, “You could have asked me!” “Yeah, and what would you have said?” Gene snorts. “Forget it. You would have taken it gladly. You will take it gladly.” “How can you be so sure?” “As I said you may have mentioned it a few times. I was tired of your whining, reckon you’ll be all glad like, when you’re in Hyde once again. As for me, no more whining.” Sam glares at him. “Yeah, Hyde of the gay science and doing things by the book.” He points two fingers at him. “And don’t you forget the doughnuts.” Sam does his ‘I can’t believe this!’ face. “Things have changed!” he exclaims. Gene studies him for a long moment. “Have they?” he asks, finally. But Sam says nothing and Gene goes on. “This has never been enough for you, Mr Perfect, Mr By The Book, we will never be enough. So take your bloody transfer and go away, go back to the perfect world you fancy so much!” That seems to get a reaction out of Sam, he looks up sharply and quietly asks, “Do you… Do you want me to go?” “What difference would it make?” Gene counters, because if he’s learned something is that what you do or do not want carries very little weight, if at all, and that life is like a casino: you can hit the jackpot once in a while, but the bank always wins in the end. “It would to me,” Sam replies, softly. “No, it wouldn’t,” Gene says, harshly. “Because if I say no, you’ll feel like I’ve stomped all over your favourite toys and if I say yes you’ll feel all smug and important like. But in the end the result is the same, you’re leaving. Someone else will take your desk. End of story.” Gladys, like the little girl he is, looks like he’s about to cry so Gene grabs his coat and makes to leave, but some of Tyler’s softness must have rubbed off on him – along with other things – because he stops just before opening the door. “When are you leaving?” he asks. “In a week, ten days at the most,” comes the soft reply. “I never thought it would be so… easy to go back.” “It’s always easy.” “No, it isn’t,” Sam says, turning around to face him. “This is like- some sort of revenge of reality,” and apparently they’ve just reached that point where Tyler starts making no sense. “It shouldn’t be this easy, not for me. It has never been until now.” Gene recalls how things used to be, before Sam, and how much they have changed now that they know, that they have the proof that no one’s infallible, not even them, not even Harry, and maybe Sam is right. It won’t be easy. He thinks of pale, powerful thighs and a wide back, he thinks of lazy kisses and broad, male hands. It won’t be easy at all. “Guv,” Sam calls out at him and he turns. “Buy you a drink?” he offers and while his eyes are certainly shiny, he isn’t crying, thank God. Gene pretends to think about it, but in the end he nods, because there are free drinks involved and he’s not an idiot. * * * “I had forgotten ‘bout it,” Gene admits. Tyler raises his head from his arms crossed on the table and squints up at him. His face is tight and worn in his usual ‘nobody understands me’ expression. And maybe he’s right and nobody does – because let’s face it, blood pattern analysis? That’s just pulling stuff out of your arse – but Sam has brought suffering to previously unachieved standards. Gene frowns, he’d have never used the world ‘unachieved’ before meeting Sam. “Wha’?” Sam says, and he sounds confused. Gene’s tried counting the empty glasses on the table, but Nelson keeps the refills coming, and he’s given up after six. Not that it matters anyway, Sam’s buying. “What, Guv?” Sam repeats, then starts muttering. “What? What? Whatwhat?” Gene watches as he snorts, then giggles. “Whaat?” “Well, well,” he says finally, with a smirk. “Aren’t you completely bladdered, DI Tyler?” “Maybe,” Sam says lowering his eyelids in what Gene supposes should be an intriguing look. The effect is ruined, though, when Sam begins to tilt sideways. “You can’t hold yer alcohol,” Gene informs him, and really, it’s a wonder he’s managed to last this much, scrawny as he is. “Chris could probably drink you under the table.” “Chris couldn’t drink a twelve year old girl under the table, Guv,” Sam replies and, by the way Chris has been blinking stupidly at his drink for a good ten minutes now, he’s probably right. “What’s that you’ve forgotten?” Sam asks, and when he meets his eyes he looks sober enough. “‘Bout the transfer,” Gene says quietly. “It was months ago, you wanted to go and I didn’t want to keep you, so I went to the Super and told him they could take you back, for all I cared,” he falls silent, then after a moment admits. “I might've had a drink or two at the time and I wasn’t particularly happy with you. Didn’t think he’d take me seriously, though.” “Until now,” Sam comments, sipping from a pint that might or might not be Gene’s. He nods. “Yeah, until now.” Sam leans back, his lips pressed together, he’s frowning as if thinking hard about something – harder than usual. He manages to find a spot amidst all the empty glasses and puts down the pint. Gene figures that’s the end of it and turns to call Nelson over to clean the table and to bring them two more pints – the last ones, he promised to be home for dinner. But in the short time that it takes Gene to raise his hand Sam must have lost the last screw holding his cogs together, because he suddenly throws his head back and starts laughing out loud. There’s nothing jovial about that laugh, though, and it’s not even a drunken laugh, it’s harsh and raw and bitter and it makes his skin crawl. It’s a mad man’s laugh. Gene’s been turning a deaf ear to the things Sam sometimes mutters to himself, to the things Cartwright’s told him, because Sam’s a damn good copper when it comes down to it, and he’s figured it would eventually get better. Only, it hasn’t, and Tyler’s losing it, right now, in the pub, in front of everybody. Sam suddenly stops laughing and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Nobody’s moving in the absolute silence, even Nelson’s stopped on the way to their table and is now observing warily as Sam slowly and unsteadily stands up. He gropes blindly for a glass, comes up with an empty one, puts it down and takes another with some remnants of beer. Gene follows his every movement as he raises the glass in a toast. “This,” he begins, then clears his throat. “This is to me going back to Hyde because Gene Hunt bloody forgot!” he exclaims, then drains the last of the pint and stumbles away from the table, almost knocking everything over. Gene recovers quickly though, and grabbing both his coat and Sam’s leather jacket, he follows the bleeding idiot outside. Everybody knows pissed people are supposed to be slower and stupider, but somehow Gene’s not really surprised that Tyler turns out to be a contrary sod even in this. When he’s out in the evening air the bloody wanker is already on the side of the street, his stride fast and resolute, if a bit stumbling. “Oi, Gladys!” he calls out, but Sam continues as if he hasn’t heard, he quickens his pace if anything, and almost falls on his stupid face when he trips over his own feet. Well, in desperate cases. Gene tosses his coat and Sam’s jacket in the back seat of the car, then he gets in and with a swift U turn he’s driving in the direction Sam’s going, driving along the pavement at a walking speed. When he reaches Tyler, he leans over the passenger seat and calls out to him through the open side window. “Oi, Tyler! You deaf on top of the whole being a bloody twat thing?” Sam just raises his chin and goes on walking, and that’s a damned childish behaviour if he’s ever seen one. “Get in, you idiot!” “No thanks, I’m walking,” Sam stumbles again but doesn’t seem to notice. “My flat’s close. Half an hour walk, in fact.” “I know where your bloody flat is!” he yells at him, and really, he’s had enough. Gene stops the car and gets out, making his way around the bonnet and coming to stand in front of Sam. Grabbing his arms, he pushes him towards the car, but of course Tyler, being the little stubborn bastard he is, tries to fight back. As always, though, he’s set himself up for a defeat because, after a brief struggle, Gene punches him in the gut, not unkindly, and Sam sags against him, coughing against his chest. “Get in,” Gene says for the last time. But Sam stands still, and his breathing is warm against Gene’s shirt. “You don’t care,” he says then, almost too low to be heard. “I’ll disappear and you don’t care.” Gene grabs his shoulders and pushes him back to look straight into his face. “You’re a bloody girl sometimes, you know that?” he says, but Sam just shakes his head. “And a bloody melodramatic one at that! ‘I’ll disappear’!” he mock-whines and shakes Sam, hard, until he makes a vague sound of protest. “Where d’ya think you’re goin’? Bloody Uganda? There’s them nifty devices, you know? They’re called telephones. You pick one up and dial.” Sam laughs again, his mad-man laugh. “Yeah, Hyde 2612.” “Yeah, Hyde, Tyler,” Gene says. “Remember? That place where everything is shiny and perfect and by the book? That place!” “You don’t understand, Guv,” Sam mutters. “Maybe I don’t, but Hyde is not that far away. It’s not like you’re bein’ stationed in India.” “I might as well be,” Sam says, but offers no resistance when Gene pushes him towards the car, he even gets in by himself, without protesting. Gene goes around the car and when he’s seated and ready to leave, Sam turns towards him asks, serious as if it was a matter of life and death. “You’re saying- you’re telling me that you’d be willing to come and visit me…in Hyde?” Really, sometimes Gene wonders why Sam hasn’t been sent to the funny farm yet, or why he’s even bothering with him. He just shoots a look in Sam’s direction. “I’ll even bring flowers,” but the crazy nutter’s off laughing again, and keeps on snorting and giggling all the way to his flat as if this were the most amusing joke in the world. * * * Once inside his flat Sam seems to lose all of his giggles and falls face down on the bed to lay there, motionless, and if he weren’t watching him closely, Gene would swear he’s fallen asleep. He stands for a moment in the threshold, then makes up his mind and gets in, shutting the door behind him. “I thought you were supposed to go home tonight,” Sam says from the bed. Gene doesn’t answer, right now he doesn’t give a rat’s arse about what Sam’s thinking, and he crosses the room to the tiny kitchenette. He opens and closes the cupboards, but they’re empty except for some rice and those fancy herbs Sam likes so much. “If you’re looking for the Scotch,” comes Sam’s muffled voice. “Sorry,” he says and raises his right arm, showing Gene the empty bottle clutched in his hand. “Bloody hell, Sam,” he exclaims, slamming the cupboards shut. “I bought that bottle just three days ago!” “I couldn’t sleep last night,” Sam replies quietly, his fingers loosening, letting the bottle fall to the floor with a clatter. He rubs his face, feeling tired all of a sudden, and goes to sit on the bed, Sam curling on his side to accommodate him, not quite touching him. “You’ve been drinking way too much, lately.” Sam snorts. “This coming from the man who’s a walking brewery.” “But you’re not me, Sam,” Gene says, grabbing his shoulder and turning him so that he’s lying on his back. “I thought you were supposed to be better than me.” Sam drapes an arm over his face and sighs. “Maybe I can’t. Maybe I’m not.” “You’re makin’ no sense.” “And what else is new?” “Shut up, smart arse,” Gene says and lets his hand travel from Sam’s hip up his right side, then down again. He feels Sam gradually relaxing, and finally he sighs, asking quietly, “stay?” Gene knows he’s supposed to go home, because he has a wife there, with a nice house and a hot dinner waiting for him. But he looks down, and there’s this bloke, softly breathing and all laid out, with his mad-man laugh, his wonky ideas, his blood patterns and his nancy-boy science. It’s Sam, who drinks himself into unconsciousness to pass the night, but who sleeps without trouble after sex. It’s Sam, who asks him to stay, even when he knows the answer is going to be no. But Gene shrugs off his coat and lets it fall to the ground. “Budge up,” he grunts, now half lying on the bed, trying to take off his shirt and tie as well. Sam’s arm raises from his face and mildly surprised eyes look up at him. “You’re staying,” he says, but it sounds unconvinced, like a question. “No, I’m just takin’ a nap,” he retorts. “Of course I’m staying. Now shove over, Gladys, that’s a good girl,” he almost falls off the bed and curses. “This bed is too bloody small.” Sam grins and moves sideways toward the edge, turning on his side. He reaches for Gene as well, his arms slipping around his neck, and tries to kiss him, but the whole thing is awkward as he’s still trying to get the tie off and Sam only manages a quick peck on the lips before changing venues. “What the-” he starts when Sam turns around and almost hits him in the face with a bony knee, but everything comes pretty clear when he feels Sam’s hands at the front of his pants and the zipper being opened. He forgets about the tie altogether and gasps, as Sam takes him in, hot wetness engulfing him. He never thought one day he would use the word ‘cocksucker’ as a compliment. He leans back, holding onto Sam’s legs, his buttocks, and Sam works quietly on him, slowly, and it’s all right because they have the whole night, their combined moans filling the room. * * * Gene wakes up to the smell of coffee and fried eggs. He grunts and blinks, the light all wrong in his bedroom, before realizing he is not, in fact, in his bedroom. “Bollocks.” “And good morning to you, ray of sunshine,” Sam chirps annoyingly and crouches by the bed so that they’re eye to eye. “Whassthetime?” he mumbles against the pillow. “Just after seven, Guv,” Sam replies and he groans because nobody should be that cheery at this bloody hour, especially considering all the alcohol Tyler drank last night. If the world were a fair place he’d be nursing the mother of all the hangovers and Gene’d still be sleeping peacefully. “Breakfast’s ready,” Sam says. Amazing what a shag and good night's sleep can do for the twat. Sam’s bringing coffee along with his annoying smirk, though, so Gene’s willing to let him get away with that. His hand sneaking out from under the covers, he grabs the mug that Sam keeps moving under his nose, the rich smell of coffee filling his nostrils. Tyler lives in a hole and has got only one mug, but he buys what has to be the most expensive coffee in town. The whole world will end the day Gene finally figures him out, but in the meantime he gets good coffee. And great shagging. He takes a sip, then his other hand makes a grab at Sam’s old, worn, vest and pulls him forward. “Your breath stinks,” Sam says and grimaces, but kisses him anyway. “Shut up,” he says and takes another sip of coffee before putting the mug down, then he tugs again at Sam. “Come ‘ere, I feel like a shag.” Sam pushes back a little. “No more lube, Guv,” he says. Gene looks pointedly at him. “I’ll think of something,” he says, then spits in his hand. Sam makes a disgusted face and hastily stands up, taking a couple of steps backwards. “Jesus, Guv! Spit and a prayer?” he exclaims and Gene raises his eyebrows at him. “Spit is not lube, Gene! It’s just- Well, spit.” Gene sniffs and turns on his back, one hand behind his head, the other scratching idly at his naked chest. “Thank you, Mr Oxford Dictionary,” he smirks up at Sam. “You are the one of the gay science, Sammy-boy, you figure it out. I want my morning shag.” Sam groans and hangs his head. “You’re not gonna let that slide, are you?” “Nope.” Tyler scratches the back of his head. “Olive oil?” he says. “Good idea. Unblock your ears. I always thought you weren't listening to a bloody word.” * * * Gene’s wife called while Sam was in the shower and, even if he wasn’t expecting a big fuss over his missed dinner, the quiet resignation in her voice has certainly been a bolt out of the blue. “It’s alright, Gene,” she said. “I understand.” And even now, hours later in the office, he feels like he’s just taken a backhander from that scum Warren, and the fact that everyone’s tiptoeing around him and Sam doesn’t help the matter in the least. Gene almost wishes for some poor bastard getting killed, so he can get his mind off the whole thing. It’s Cartwright, around 10, who makes the first move, and it says so much when the only one who’s got balls enough to come and talk to him is the bloody bird. “Uh, Guv,” she begins. “Is it true? What Sam- DI Tyler said yesterday in the pub?” “Yes,” he says. “Now you can go hold his hand and kiss it better.” She stiffens at that and Gene watches as she stands straighter, all determined like, her chin thrust up. He pities the poor the sod who’s gonna marry her and, if it’s gonna be Sam, Gene just knows who’ll be the one wearing the trousers in the relationship. “With all due respect, sir, my personal relationship with DI Tyler is none of your business,” she says and Gene barely manages to keep his face straight at that, because oh, the stories he could tell her. “And frankly speaking, I can’t understand why you’ve done something like this. I thought you considered Sam a friend, that you… respected him.” “With all due respect, WDC Cartwright, my personal relationship with DI Tyler is none of your business,” he replies, leaning back against his chair. “Sir,” she says, but makes no move to go away. He sighs, long suffering. “I guess you could call it a clerical mistake. Or a misunderstanding,” what did Sam say? “The revenge of reality.” “But, Guv,” she continues, relentless. “Aren’t you going to do something about this?” “Apart from the Super, the only one who can refuse the transfer is Sam and, even if I request his staying, how long do you think it will take to get him back? And, by then, do you really think he’d want to come back here? He’s been moaning about Hyde since day one.” “You don’t think he’ll… miss us, then?” she asks, birds and their namby-pamby feelings. “Of course he’ll miss us, he’ll cry over you and all the cosy moments you spent together. But I’m no fool, Cartwright, and you’re a pretty smart bird, as well. Answer this then, what has he ever done to stay?” The plonk doesn’t answer, but the way she frowns and looks down all confused, avoiding Gene’s eyes tells him he’s hit the jackpot. “So you want to try and keep him ‘ere with your feminine charms? Be my guest, love, but don’t think you’ll get results, even if you show up starkers and shake your tits under his nose.” At that she finally leaves. * * * Gene is trying to watch the bloody Corrie, but of course he can’t because Tyler is turning everything upside down, opening drawers, slamming them closed, whizzing to and fro in front of the telly, so fast it’s making him dizzy. “Tyler!” he yells, grabbing the pillow and throwing it at him. The pillow hits him in the chest and falls to the floor, Gladys glares at him, but picks it up and puts it back into place. Then he kneels by the bed and looks under it. While Tyler’s not upsetting his telly-watching anymore, he’s certainly giving him ideas. “What,” he asks, finally, “are you doin’?” Tyler leans with his elbows on the mattress, still kneeling, and rubs his face, it’s his ‘Apocalypse Face’. He uses it a lot, the melodramatic twat. “I can’t find it,” he sighs at last. “What? Yer brain?” he shrugs. “It will be back soon, probably can’t stay too far from yer big, airy-fairy head.” Sam glares at him. “They should give you awards for your hilarious jokes.” “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Gladys,” he tells him, and it’s not the first time. Sam doesn’t reply, even if he makes a big show of rolling his eyes and sighing, and goes back to looking under the bed. And there’s nothing like a certain half-naked DI crawling around on all fours to pique Gene’s interest. Telly forgotten, he changes position on the bed so he can comfortably sit and watch as Tyler shakes his- “Stop it!” Sam exclaims, pointing a menacing finger at him without even looking. “You’re distracting me!” “No, you are distracting me from the amazing…” Gene casts a glance back to check what the hell he’s been watching until a moment earlier, “…world of Coronation Street.” “You don’t even like it!” Sam emerges once again from under the bed, and this times he turns around, back against it and sitting on the floor, his legs stretched in front of him. He lets his head fall back. “I can’t find my St. Christopher medal,” he sighs. Gene’s eyes travels down Sam’s neck to his naked chest, and the gold chain is in fact missing. “You had it earlier,” he says and shrugs. “Yes,” Sam says, and glares at him. “Before somebody decided manhandling was a brilliant idea as foreplay.” He snorts. “As if you didn’t like it.” Sam shrugs. “Well, doesn’t matter now.” But it obviously does matter, because Tyler sighs like a broken-hearted girl every other minute and his eyes are staring at a spot on the ceiling that holds nothing of interest except for a particularly mysterious stain. Gene rolls his eyes, but he must have been too loud, because Sam has heard him and evidently taken it as a question aimed at him. “It was a gift,” he says. “This man gave it to me, he said it was the property a friend of his. I promised to take good care of it.” He waits a bit, and Sam remains silent, but it’s obvious he just itches to go on with his bloody story. He sighs. “If it was his friend’s why did he give it to you?” Sam shrugs, “I don’t know. He told me his friend had left, and it stuck because it was around the time my… dad had gone away, as well.” “Who was he?” “I don’t remember, I was four, Gene. I just-” he shakes his head, “he looked like a giant to me, a big, mighty giant. And I remember he smelled of smoke, and Brut,” Sam raises his head. “Kind of like you,” he says softly and turns to look at him, blinking like an idiot. Gene frowns. “What?” Sam looks like he’s about to say something but he just smiles and ducks his head. “Nothing,” he says at last. He’s finally silent, and seems to have somehow settled all his worries about the bloody chain. “It’ll be around ‘ere somewhere,” he tells him, after a while, “it’s not like you live in a bloody castle.” * * * “Ah, Guv,” Chris says when he emerges from his office around lunch time. “You just missed him.” Gene frowns at him, then checks the hour, but everything’s as it should be, he hasn’t lost part of the conversation, even if it feels like it. “What?” “The Boss, Guv, you just missed him,” Chris explains, and he nods in the direction of the doors leading out of CID. Of course he’s just missed him, Tyler was in his office until barely two minutes ago, when he left for lunch. “I know,” Gene says slowly, in case Chris might lose part of it. “I was there when he left.” Chris blinks rapidly at him, and it’s a wonder he doesn’t get dizzy from that, really. “Uh, not the Boss,” he says shaking his head. “The other Boss, the New Boss.” Gene nods thoughtfully, considering that, then he clears his voice. “Right. Will you be makin’ sense soon or should I sit down?” he leans back with his arse against Tyler’s desk, just to be on the safe side. “The replacement. From Hyde,” Chris finally clarifies. “He was here.” Gene frowns. “I thought he was supposed to be here on Monday.” “Said he didn’t wanna waste time, that he had nothing to do,” Chris shrugs. “Name’s Malcolm Parkman.” “And where’s he now?” “Boss has got him.” He quickly stands up. “Where did they go?” Chris shakes his head. “Canteen, I suppose.” “Right,” he nods and he’s off. He needs to separate those two before Tyler has the time to corrupt another one of his men. He spots them as soon as he opens the door of the canteen, Tyler and the new guy are sat at the table in the corner, on the far right, heads bent together and all chitty-chatty, like two school girls. Well, Gladys looks like a school girl, the other bloke looks like a docker, or a rugby player. When he gets to their table, though, it’s too late already. They’re talking about dusting for prints. “Great,” he mutters and they both turn to look at him, questioningly. “And this is DCI Hunt,” Sam says, smiling his smart arse smile at him. “Your new boss. He looks and acts just like a bastard, but don’t worry, he’s even worse.” “Kiss me pale arse, Gladys,” he replies, then stabs a finger in the new DI’s – Parkman? – direction. “I thought we had an agreement over the men! He’s mine!” Sam frowns and leans back on the chair, his arms crossed. “Don’t think so, Guv,” he says. “Well, then, think again!” Sam cocks his head to the side. “You got Ray, Billy, Lytts, Dave and Nick,” he raises five fingers on his left hand, then raises his right one and start the counting on that, as well. “I get Chris, Annie, Ed and Phil,” he looks down at his hands with a mock-surprised expression. “That’s four!” he points at Parkman. “He’s mine.” This is gonna take a while, so Gene grabs a chair and sits down, slamming his palms down on the table. “Technically he’s not working here, yet,” he says. “And he’s gonna take your place, so we could say he’s you. And since I’m the Guv around here and you, Tyler, are mine-” hh, and that doesn't come out that well, in his head it doesn’t sound so queer “-I win, he’s mine. Hand him over.” He extends his hand, smirking smugly, and how does it feel to be beaten at your own game, Sammy-boy? Of course, Tyler is never proven wrong, and just lifts his chin, narrowing his eyes at him, and if he wants to start a glaring completion, he’s found somebody just cut out for the job. “Uh,” the replacement starts. “That was funny, really, if a bit disturbing. You should do cabaret.” Now that he gets a good look at him, Parkman could easily pass for a rugby player, wide shoulders, broken nose, overall nasty air. So, not everybody in Hyde is a girlie poof. Now, if only he could understand why they keep their hair so bloody short. “And I’d really like to know what the hell is going on.” “Tyler is a bloody cheat, that’s what’s goin’ on,” Gene answers, glaring at the twat in question. “We’ve got an agreement over the men in me team he gets to corrupt, and he’s just broken it.” “Corrupt, Sir?” “Yes,” Tyler says, and in Gene’s opinion he’s still rather poor at that sarcasm thing. “I corrupt them with proper procedure.” The bloody gits share a glance and snort at the same time, and Gene is having a very bad feeling about this. “Where I-” Sam looks at Parkman, “we come from, that’s the rule.” Oh, bollocks, he should have known. “Bloody Hyde,” he mutters and rolls his eyes. “What have I done to deserve this?” “Karma is a bitch, Guv,” Sam says, nodding like he always does, like he knows all the secrets in the universe. “Whatever,” he shrugs. “At least he’s not a girl like you Gladys, two birds in me team are more than enough,” then a thought suddenly occurs to him, he narrows his eyes at the replacement and asks. “You aren’t one of those United losers, are you?” “Sir!” Parkman lets out an indignant cry. “I’ve been Blue since the day I was born!” Ah, well, they do something good in Hyde, after all. “DI Parkman,” he says, clapping the chap on the shoulder. “For that, I’ll let you buy me a Scotch later at the pub,” then he turns to Tyler. “WDI Gladys, I believe you owe me lunch.” * * * Reality catches up with them fairly quickly. It’s nothing major, actually, but it’s enough. They’ve been kissing for a while, and Gene knows now and knew then, they should have stopped sooner. No, they shouldn’t have even started. Because they have rules. They have rules for this thing between them. And one of those rules is ‘never at work’. It’s the only one both of them have agreed to without protest. And it’s the only one they break regularly. He has Tyler pressed against the wall, in Lost and Found, and he’s sure there’s nobody left at the station, it’s late, and they’re free to ‘get started’ before they go back to Sam’s flat and finish. But this time, it doesn’t work like that. This time it’s a gasp, Chris’ widened eyes and Tyler stopping him when Gene wants to go after the bloody div. And now, three fags and a thrown chair later, he’s still in Lost and Found, but there’s no trace of Tyler, nor Chris. He’s thinking about going back to his office to grab his coat, to get a hold of all his hip flasks. Getting mighty pissed and killing every memory he has of this night sounds like a good enough plan to him. The door opens slowly and Tyler comes in, shutting it behind him and leaning against it. “He’s not gonna tell anybody.” Gene snorts, of course Chris is not gonna tell anybody! He’s a nice lad, but he lacks the balls to stand against his Guv. No, he’s not gonna tell. But now Gene has to face his disgust, and maybe his loss of trust. Sam is still leaning against the door, and the whole room is between them. “From now on, I think we shouldn’t-” he says, but stops. “I mean…” Gene nods thoughtfully. “Yeah.” Tyler nods at him, and sighs, and for once Gene thinks his air of misery is appropriate. He nods again, and makes as if to go, opening the door a tad. He stops on the threshold, though, and looks back at him. “Should I be waiting for you?” he asks softly, and when Gene frowns at him uncomprehendingly. “Tonight?” Gene snorts. “I thought you said we shouldn’t any more.” Sam closes the door and takes a few steps into the room. “I meant here!” he exclaims. He raises his eyebrows. “You did.” Tyler nods, still frowning, then he asks softly. “You want to break it off?” He rolls his eyes, because if he wanted melodrama he could read his wife’s romance novels. “Now, now. Don’t cry on me.” “What’s the point?” Sam shakes his head. “I’ll be gone soon enough, anyway.” “Bloody hell, Tyler,” he groans. “You’re talking as if you’re gonna drop dead any minute!” “I might as well be,” Sam replies, looking straight at him, and for a moment, he believes him. * * * He lets his hands glide over pale skin, from the back of the knees up and up, until Sam gasps softly and relaxes. He thinks too much for his own good in Gene’s opinion, but he has really nice arse. The legs spread under him, but he doesn’t move, just hovers over Sam’s back, without touching him but close enough to feel the warmth of his body, the slight trembling. “Get on with it, Gene!” Sam exclaims, urgently and this, the begging, is even better than the actual sex, sometimes. Well, not better, but damn close, Mr. Stiff-Uppity himself asking to be shagged by Gene Hunt? Not an ordinary thing in Gene’s world. Until lately, anyway. “Gene,” Sam breathes and he gives up, because if Sam wants to be fucked, on his part he certainly wants to fuck him. He buries his face against the back of his neck, inhaling deeply, and that’s something else he’s picked up from Sam. When Gene commented about his weird habit of going around sniffing things, he started yapping away, hiding behind all of his clever science. ‘Primal’, he said; some scents go straight to the subconscious avoiding the thinking process altogether. Or something. And Tyler says he never listens to him. Gene figures he’s right in a way, though, because he’s here sniffing Tyler like a bloody dog and he’s doing no thinking at all, except with his dick. Under him Sam arches up and brings them in contact, from shoulders down to their feet, aligned together. “Gene,” Sam says again and Gene doesn’t think that this may be the last time, he doesn’t think of Sam’s leaving, he just buries his nose in the soft hair and keeps him open as he pushes inside him. And Gene would have figured Sam for one of those people who make a lot of noise during a shag. Not that he’s actually spent much thought on it, none at all in fact. He just remembers that the first time they did this, grinding against each other, half-pissed, half-furious, he was surprised at Sam’s soft, almost mute gasps. You’d think that a bloke that spends most of his waking time flapping his trap like there’s no tomorrow would be more…vocal. He stops and, despite Sam’s protests, he draws back. “What are you doing?” Sam frowns back at him over his shoulder, but he doesn’t answer, he just grabs his hips and pushes, turning him around and finally Sam gets on with the program. Long legs hooked on his shoulders, and Sam’s folded in half under his weight, under him. And what’s Gene’s and what’s Sam’s blurs together and it’s only hands that grasp and grab and hold on and stroke, and there’s only mouths and lips and tongues. And he buries his face against the sweaty neck beneath him, and he tries to get deeper and hands are clawing at his back and the only noises in the room are his grunts, the sound of flesh meeting flesh and those quiet, broken gasps that Gene knows will forever haunt his dreams. * * * Gene idly scratches his thigh, Sam’s breath slow and warm where his face is squashed up against his shoulder. He’s not sleeping, though, and whatever he was thinking earlier has now come back, Gene knows. He knows because Sam’s tense beside him, because his eyes are squeezed shut, as if there’s something he really doesn’t want to see. He sniffs, and wishes for a fag. “You got it wrong,” he tells him. “What?” Sam asks, confused, and feels more than hears the words, as they’re formed and spoken against his skin. “You’ve got it wrong,” he repeats. “When you don’t wanna see something that’s inside your head, you have to open your eyes.” Sam makes a surprised sound, but when he turns his head to look at him, his eyes are open. “What makes you think it’s inside my head?” “Because, Sammy-boy,” he replies, “your head is a very, very scary place.” Sam laughs softly, the quiet rumbles shaking his thin frame lightly. “You may be onto something there.” “Don’t I know it.” After a while, still looking at him, Sam asks. “Aren’t you gonna say something?” Gene thinks about it, “Um, nice shag?” he tries, but Sam rolls his eyes. “What d’ya want me to say?” Sam shifts on his back, “I…don’t know,” he frowns at the ceiling, “I’m leaving in two days. Feels like you should say something.” Gene snorts. “Goodbye. That’s what I’m gonna say. Tomorrow. At your farewell party.” Sam nods and falls silent. Gene suddenly craves some Scotch to drink, because nobody should endure a brooding Tyler without the benefits of a single malt or twenty. He stands up. “I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again,” Sam says then, and he groans loudly. Really, how girlie can you get? “Please!” he snorts. “You’ll probably get bored with all the nancies in C Division and come back here!” He finds the bottle and proceeds to generously pour some Scotch for both of them. “Here where the real men are?” Oooh, sarcasm, good boy. “Nope, where I am,” he considers the amount of Scotch and pours himself some more, making it a triple. Sam looks at him in disbelief. “Bloody sure of yourself, are you?” “Now that you’ve had a taste of the Gene Genie you can’t do without,” he says, handing one glass to Sam before going to the window, turning and leaning back against the sill. “Sure Guv,” Sam snorts. “I couldn’t live without you.” “Right,” he nods, scratching his belly and taking a sip, “I’m all indispensable, like, to you and all that crap, Tyler.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you’re like air.” Gene waits for him to drink again, then, “I’m your oxyGene.” Sam’s eyes widen and he starts coughing and hacking, and when he’s more or less able to breathe again he glares at him. “Jesus, Gene,” but the already poor effect is ruined when he starts laughing loudly, and for once it’s not the mad-man laugh. After a moment the laughter subside and Sam goes back to thoughtfully sipping his Scotch, or what’s left of it anyway. Finally, he looks straight at him. “Never thought I would,” he says. “But I’ll miss you.” “Hmm,” Gene nods, thinking about it. “Sissy.” But Sam smiles again and Gene has to look away before he realizes that in two days he won’t see that any more. Something catches his eye, there, by the table leg. A glimpse of gold shining in the late afternoon light coming from the window, and he bends down to get a better look. “Well, Well. Look what I’ve found,” he says, the St. Christopher's medal swinging from his fingers. Sam squints at it from the bed, he chuckles quietly, then his head falls back on the pillow. “Keep it,” he says. “Yeah, right. Nobody will think it’s strange that I’m wearin’ your trinkets,” he snorts. Without counting the fact that Tyler’s been an insufferable git about the bloody thing ever since he lost it. “I’m not saying you should wear it,” Sam says. “Just keep it. You’ll know what to do with it.” Here he goes again with all the mysterious stuff, and Gene opens his mouth to reply, but changes his mind and, cradling the medal into his palm, he goes to put it into his coat pocket. When he turns around Sam is looking at him with a strange light in his eyes, and Gene’s reminded once again that this is not a normal man he’s dealing with, even without counting the queer thing. Sam is the most unique person Gene knows and has known in his life. And sometimes he’s even afraid of him, because he’s got a brilliant mind, but it’s like a train with no brakes going at full speed, and there’s no hope it’s going to stop before the crash. Because not even three months ago Sam’s pointed a gun at his head. Some day somebody’s gonna say something – maybe even that bird of his – and Sam will end up with the nutters. And Gene hopes he won’t be there, because he doesn’t know if he’s more disgusted at the thought of Sam locked up or by the fact that sometimes he seriously thinks he should be. Sam frowns up at him. “What is it?” He shrugs and goes for truth. “I’m just wondering if you’ll ever tell me about it.” Sam draws in a sharp breath, he rubs his face with both hands, then his neck. “Guv, I…” he sighs and lets his face fall back on the shoddy mattress. “I would gladly tell you, if I thought even for a moment you’d believe me.” And here he goes, Sam Tyler, self-centred prick, who thinks the universe is moving just for his pleasure. “Why would I believe you if everything you say is just a pile of crap?” he retorts. Tyler sighs his martyr sigh. “There you go, Guv. That’s why I’m not gonna tell you anything.” “So what if I don’t believe you?” Gene snorts. “You’re always sayin’ things. All the bloody time, as a matter of fact. And a lot of ‘em are crap,” he shrugs. “Sometimes I listen, though.” Sam shakes his head. “It’s not that easy, I…” he abruptly stands up. “Look, Gene, I’ll be gone in a few days, can’t we just forget this and… I don’t know. Not fight for once?” he says. “Because that’s where this is going if we continue. And I’d really like to leave with some good, if not happy, memories of…” he gestures between them. “This.” That’s right Sammy-boy, ignore it and it’ll disappear. Gene is quite the expert on this, and it rarely works, if ever at all. But you get better at it after a while, the ignoring part, and maybe Tyler’s right this time, and Gene only has to turn a blind eye to his nutty moments until Monday, until he becomes somebody else’s problem. And if Tyler wants to pretend that this is just two blokes bonking each other silly, he can get behind that plan. As he’s already pointed out, Sam’s a good shag. Gene nods and walks to the table, sitting in one of the rickety chairs, he pats his belly and looks up at him, expectantly. “So, what’s for dinner?” Sam snorts, but goes to check his supplies and for the rest of the evening everything seems back to normal. But some time in the middle of the night Sam gets up, quietly, trying not to wake him up. No use, though, he’s been awake for quite a while now, trying to decide if he’s a sissy as well. He hears the rustle of clothes and when he opens his eyes he sees that Tyler is now wearing a shirt – Gene’s maybe, he can’t be too sure in the darkness. He hears bare feet pad quietly to the table, the sound of the bottle being opened, of Scotch being poured. Gene closes his eyes and listens as Sam drinks the night away. In the morning he finds Sam slumped on the table, asleep or unconscious, and he shakes him awake. Neither of them comments on the fact that the bottle is now empty. * * * Gene’s been waiting for a repeat of Tyler’s drunken ramblings of the other day, he’s been waiting for all this to turn sour and ugly now that it’s coming to an end. Ever since Parkman’s arrived Sam’s been spending all of his pub time with him, deep in conversation. What they’ve been talking about, Gene doesn’t know, but he can hazard some guesses. They’ve probably reached the ‘How not to make your suspect cry when you question them’ chapter in that Book they like so much up there in Hyde. Even now, at his bloody farewell party, Tyler’s busy yapping away with his mate and Gene has the nagging suspicion this is all a subtle plot schemed by the Super to make him go bonkers and resign, leaving his team in the hands of another bloody idiot like Litton. Ray comes back from the board and hands him his darts. He turns to look at the two love birds, as well. “Bloody poofters,” he sneers, and Gene couldn’t agree more. “Mark me words, Guv. They’re gonna turn the station into a soddin’ tea party,” he takes aim and shoots, the dart lodges itself in the four points section, Ray curses. Gene pats him on the shoulder. “You’ll be luckier next time,” he says, taking a step forward to throw his. The dart bounces off the board and falls down, they both look at it for a moment. Gene considers all the pints and the chasers and he’s prepared to admit, even if only to himself, that he might be slightly pissed right now. Ray barks a loud laugh. “You’ll be luckier next time, Guv,” he smirks at him. Bloody div. Then his eyes go beyond Gene’s shoulder and he narrows his eyes, there’s only one person who can get that reaction out of Ray. “Heads up,” he says. “Here comes Smarty Pants,” and Ray should work on his sarcasm, as well. “Guv,” says Gladys. “Sergeant,” but Gene has no time for their little Mexican standoff, so he goes back to his game of darts. Sam yelps and jumps as a dart goes flying through the air, only inches from his face. Uh, 24 points. “Damn,” he clicks his tongue. “Missed again.” Next to him Ray smirks, in front of him Tyler glares, but he suddenly seems to remember something and he shoots a glance in the direction of the bar. There’s no one there, except Nelson. “Lost your boyfriend, Gladys?” he asks, getting out his lighter and trying to light the damn fag he’s had between his lips for quite some time now. Blasted thing won’t stay still, though. “He’s gone to the loo,” Sam replies, sighing and snatching the lighter from his hands. “Hey!” he protests but watches, his eyes crossed, as the flame comes alive, and suddenly the fag is working. “Hey.” “There you go, Guv,” Sam says, snapping closed the lighter and handing it back to him. “Can I have a word, please?” he glares at Ray. “In private.” Ray doesn’t shift, though, and Gene waves at him. “I’m busy right now.” “You’re playing darts. With Ray,” Tyler says as if he were stupid and not just bladdered. He glances back at the bar, then, “it’s important.” “Right,” Gene says, pressing his lips together. “I can see that. Go back to your Hyde chap and leave me alone.” “Jesus, Guv, I-” but Parkman is back from the loo and his eyes are searching the room for Gladys, and it would be so bloody cute and sweet if didn’t make him sick. “Shit.” Gene watches silently as Sam sighs and makes his way back to the bar, and there’s been something not quite right in his voice, but Ray claps him on the shoulder and brings his attention back to the game. Twenty minutes later he sees Tyler and Parkman leaving together, and something ugly and angry that he can’t quite explain growls in his belly. Picturing the dartboard as Sam’s face seems to help, though, and it feels even more satisfying when he wins the fiver from Ray. Predictably, all the good humour gained thanks to the game and the subsequent round of pints is ruined once again by Gladys, even if he’s not there in physical form he can annoy him from afar. Bloody phones. The receiver is shoved under his face by an amused looking Nelson. “For you, mon brav.” “Gene,” says Sam. “I’m hangin’ up,” he replies and almost does, but the urgent way Sam’s saying his name makes him hesitate. “What? And make it quick.” Tyler, of course, doesn’t. “Look, I don’t know why I'm here, right? In 1973, I mean.” “Stop right there, Sam,” Gene hisses, and if the bloke weren’t bloody daft, he’d be here, or they’d be somewhere, shagging. “This is your party, Gladys, where are you? Oh, right, bein’ all chitty chatty with the new bloke. In fact, you hit it off awfully quickly, didn’t you?” There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone, not even the sound of breathing, and for a moment he wonders if he’s imagining the call. “You’re jealous?” Sam exclaims, but he doesn’t sound amused, more like disbelieving. “Disturbed. Disgusted. And to some extent, terrified,” he snorts. “I keep picturing Hyde as a place full of nancy boys gettin’ all excited over some poor bastard’s spatters of blood and writing reports about it all day.” Sam sighs, and he can almost picture his face as he does that, it would be his ‘I don’t deserve this’ face. Gene gets that a lot. “I think you’re carrying it too far,” he says. “You probably wear pink dotted gloves to go over the crime scenes.” More silence, then, “I don’t know how much time I’ve got, and I don’t know where I’m going to be tomorrow, but-” “You’ve got very little time if you go on makin’ no bloody sense at all!” he exclaims, waving Nelson over for a refill. “And don’t be an idiot. Tomorrow you’ll be in Hyde, because you’re leaving. Feelin’ all happy now, don’t you?” “You wanted me to go!” “And you didn’t want to stay!” he yells in the receiver, and this conversation is turning him into a bloody pansy, damn Tyler and his namby-pamby stuff that’s rubbed off on him. On the other hand, though, actually bonking his DI may have increased the queer factor a bit. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ray frowning at him and next to him Chris looks away, guiltily. Right. “Go to hell, Tyler, and take Hyde with you,” he says genuinely, and slams down the receiver. Five seconds later the phone starts ringing again, but Gene ignores it and after a while it stops. It doesn’t ring again. * * * Monday is unusually slow. Nobody’s been whacked during the week-end and the only meaningful case is a robbery in a small shop, but Gene’s nicked the tosser before ten, questioned him before eleven and got a confession before lunch, even if Chris has pulled a Tyler and taped the interview. “That’s how we get the job done here,” he tells the replacement, because you never know when those Hyde Rules they seem to have inculcated in their heads are gonna come out to pester you to death. Parkman nods. “Yes, sir.” He frowns. “What ‘appened to your face?” Parkman touches the bruise on his cheek and shakes his head. “It was Olivier earlier, when we arrested- nicked him. He tried to escape.” He nods. “Then we shall add aggression of a police officer and resistance to his list,” he claps him on the shoulder. “Well done, Parkman.” The replacement nods and goes off to his desk and Gene can’t help it, but he doesn’t like him. He’s braced for another annoying, know-it-all, little bugger, but he just nods and says ‘Yes, sir’ and does what Gene asks him to do. This seraphic rugby player doesn’t sit quite right with him, there’s something about him he can’t explain. It must be Tyler’s fault and all his talk of Hyde, because to listen to him you’d think Hyde is the heaven of paperwork and policing by the book, but it’s not and he knows it, C Division is a place like any other. Still. He shrugs and he’s about to go back to the office, when Miss Marple herself enters, carrying a very familiar piece of clothing. He strides towards her, and when she notices him, she stops. Gene nods at the black leather in her arms. “What’s that?” he asks, taking a drag from his fag. “It’s Sam’s,” she replies, but he knows that, what he wants to know is why she’s got it. “He left it at The Railway Arms last night. I went by his flat this morning to give it to him, but he didn’t answer.” He frowns. “He’s already left.” Cartwright nods and looks down all lost and sad like, and there’s a reason why they don’t make women detectives, them bloody sissy feelings. He rolls his eyes and tugs at the jacket. “Give that to me.” She doesn’t offer resistance and, with a creaking of leather, he goes to his office, the bird trailing silently behind him. “Guv,” she starts. “Do you think we...we’ll ever see him again?” Gene hangs the jacket behind the door and doesn’t answer her. He goes to the desk and finds his Scotch. “Of course we will,” he lies. Cartwright nods, but she doesn’t seem too convinced, she’s a bright bird, after all. She leaves and when she closes the door behind her, he sees Tyler’s jacket hanging there, and it’s almost like Sam could come in any minute to grab it and put it on, before going down to the pub. At five o’clock on the dot Gene downs the last Scotch before dinner, grabs his coat and drives straight home to the wife. He doesn’t miss Sam at all. * * * Tuesday starts like any other normal day. He gets up, has some eggs and tea for breakfast, goes to work. They get a call around 9, somebody’s whacked some bloke and shut him in the boot of a car. Gene stuffs his team and the replacement into his Cortina and they go to the scene. At precisely 9:27 this particular Tuesday stops being ordinary and becomes a very shitty day, possibly the shittiest day in Gene’s life. Certainly, the shittiest Tuesday. Gene shoves away the stuttering plod and walks to the heap of metal for which ‘car’ is a very loose term. He opens the boot and slams it down a second later, stumbling against it, leaning on it, suddenly dizzy. Now he understands the shilly-shally plod of earlier, when he asked where the dead bloke was. His hands grip the blue, rusty metal so hard it feels like his fingers are going to snap and bend backwards any moment. “Guv,” Ray asks as he ducks under the rope enclosing the crime scene. “Everything all right?” “No,” he says in a low voice and takes several deep breaths, suddenly short of air. “Guv?” He pulls away from the boot and squares his shoulders. “I want the whole area sealed off,” he says, “nobody goes near without my authorisation. I want forensics, I want everybody to go through the scene with a comb. I want evidence.” “Sure, Guv,” Ray nods slowly, frowning. “We do it Tyler’s way,” he snorts and Gene’s head whips around at the mention of that name. “Who’s the stiff?” Ray asks pointing at the closed boot with his cigarette. “It’s Sam,” Gene replies, and it kills him, as if denying it wouldn’t make it real. Ray’s eyes widen and he goes to check, opening the boot a tad and peering inside. “Jesus,” he says quietly, closing it and leaning against it with his hands, his head bent down, unconsciously mirroring Gene’s earlier position. “As soon as the coroner arrives I want you and Parkman to deal with,” Sam, “it. Don’t let Cartwright see him.” “Or Chris,” Ray adds, flicking his fag away. They both watch as it lands in the rubble, and after a moment Ray bends down to pick it up, “Sorry, Guv,” he mutters, sounding genuine. Ray’s warmest display of affection towards Sam has been a nod, and to Gene this behaviour, his shock, feels unnatural. Unnatural like Sam’s body huddled in the cramped space is. His skin milk white, his eyes fixed and sightless. It’s Sam. Sam’s dead. * * * He has the keys, but he really doesn't think about it, his mind still blank. The door gives in under his weight, and when Gene strides into the flat – Chris, Cartwright and some PCs following him – nothing looks different. The bed is unmade, there’s an empty bottle of wine on the table, two glasses drying next to the sink. He frowns, he doesn’t remember using them. “His clothes are still here,” Cartwright says, checking the wardrobe. “Looks like he didn’t pack,” Chris adds. He shakes his head. “He didn’t have the time,” he takes a glass. “Somebody was here with him.” The meaning in his words is clear, and both of them take a sharp breath and divert their eyes. Chris starts picking at the bed covers, idly, evidently not knowing what to do. “Get the science boys here,” he tells him. Chris nods and scampers off. The flat looks as if Sam could come back any minute, with a bag full of his weird food and protesting about his kicked in door. Gene slams the cupboards closed and goes to have a look in the bathroom. There’s nothing there, though, except for the nearly new bottle of slick Sam bought the other day. Before he can think about it, he grabs it and puts it into his pocket. “Guv!” Cartwright calls him, from her kneeling position near the table. She touches the wall and when she shows him her fingers the tips are stained, “It looks like blood,” she says. “It’s fresh.” A thought pops up in his head, sinister and treacherous, and maybe Sam would still be alive if he’d gone home with him Sunday night. Or if he'd listened to what he had to say on the phone. Clenching his teeth so hard it hurts, he strides through the room and out of the flat, right to the first door he encounters down the corridor. He knocks fiercely on thin wood, and it takes only a few moments for Mrs. Finley to open at his bellowed ‘Police!’ She looks at him, a frown on her features, “Yes?” she asks, but her face clears a tad when Cartwright reaches his side and smiles politely at the old woman. He takes out his badge. “DCI Hunt,” he says, then points at Sam’s still open door. “We’re here about Sam Tyler,” he says. “That nice fellow, you mean?” “He’s dead,” he says, and her face crumples. “Oh,” she murmurs. “He was a really nice bloke. Always greeted me, and he helped carrying me shopping bags up the stairs once or twice.” Right, Tyler the good Samaritan, with women of every age falling down at his feet. Gene can’t figure why, really, he’s- was an annoying git most of the time. “Would you mind if we asked some questions about Sam, Mrs. Finley?” Cartwright asks. “Of course, come in,” she says, coming away from the door. “I’ll put on the kettle.” “Guv!” Chris calls from behind them, as he takes the last steps of the staircase. “Forensics will be here as soon as possible.” He nods and points at the PCs still standing outside Sam’s open door. “You stay there, nobody gets in!” They nod. “Good.” He enters Mrs. Finley’s house right after Chris, and he goes to settles on the sofa. When the tea is brewed, he accepts a cup with a nod of his head. “All right,” he starts, beside him Chris is already with notepad in hand, ready to take notes. “Have you noticed anything strange lately?” Mrs. Finley frowns and shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says. “We had different hours. He was either coming home very late or leaving very early.” “Coppers never sleep, love,” he says, and at her surprised face. “You didn’t know?” “He never told me,” she frowns. “Well, that explains it, then.” “Explains what?” “Sometimes I was woken at night by somebody knocking very loudly on his door. I never went to check, but I’m sure it was a man,” she nods. “He yelled, and once I heard a terrible sound, like a bang. The morning after I saw Mr. Tyler putting up his door. The man had kicked it in.” Well, that sounds familiar. Both Cartwright and Chris are sneaking glances at him, and there’s a small grin playing on the bird’s lips. “He always stayed the night,” she says, and Chris almost drops his cuppa. “Well, if he left, I never heard him.” He clears his voice. “Right, Mrs. Finley. What about the last few days? From Saturday on?” “I wouldn’t know,” she shakes her head. “I was at me daughter’s house this weekend.” Gene sighs and rubs his face. He stands up, “Thanks, love.” “You should ask Jack, down the hall,” she says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, Mr. Hunt.” He nods and leaves, stopping just outside to wait for Chris and the plonk. “Right,” he tells them, when they arrive. “Let’s question all the neighbours. And I want a door to door, as well,” he adds. “If he was killed here, they had to carry the body to the car and then drive where we found it. Him.” They nod, silent, and they look as if they might be sick. Gene doesn’t really blame them. * * * When Gene arrives just outside the morgue he finds all of them there, the replacement as well, some staring off ahead, some at their shoes. Chris is sniffing silently and Cartwright’s eyes are teary. “What are you lot doin’ here?” he barks. Parkman clears his throat. “Uh, what about the autopsy, Sir?” he asks, and Gene still can’t think of ‘Sam’ and ‘autopsy’ in the same sentence. “We should-” “You should get some bloody work done!” he exclaims. “We don’t need five people watching a blasted autopsy!” “But, Guv-” Cartwright starts. “Not now, love,” he cuts her off. “Almost one day’s gone by and what’ve we got?” They’re all silent. “That’s right! And you know what, I don’t think we’ll get any suggestions from DI Tyler now, so why don’t you all get a bloody move on and get some results?” “Guv!” the plonk’s head snaps up and she’s really lucky to be a woman, otherwise he’d have served her a knuckle sandwich for her pig-headed insubordination a long time ago. “Don’t argue, WDC Cartwright,” he says lowly. “Do you or do you not want to catch the fucking bastard?” he yells, and she nods, her eyes widened. “Then do the bloody job!” And Gene wants to get the bastard, he wants that very much. He wants to squeeze his hands, his fingers around the fucker’s neck, he wants to kill him slowly. He wants to bash his head against the desk in Lost and Found, again and again, and again. Until the bones crack, until the brains come dribbling out. He can already feel the blood staining his hands, and he doesn’t care if revenge won’t make him feel better in the end, because right now it’s something he can look forward to, every time he closes his eyes and sees Sam’s empty gaze. They leave one by one, Chris for last. He lingers in the doorway, shuffling his feet, and glancing up at him. “What is it?” he sighs. “Uh, Guv…” Chris starts, then clears his voice and looks straight at him, serious and earnest, “I’m sorry.” He raises an eyebrow at him. “He told me, when I- when you-” Chris blushes and Gene comes away from the wall, straightening. “He told me it’d be over soon, but I’d never thought…” he trails off as he looks in the direction of the morgue. “Yeah, me neither,” he sniffs. “What are you doin’ still here? Haven’t you got something to do?” Chris gives a curt nod and finally leaves. He doesn’t really want to go inside, he knows what’s waiting for him on the other side of that door, but he has to. He smokes three fags and drinks half of one of his hip flasks before he’s able to push open the door. Sam’s there, on the slab, and Oswald is holding the scalpel hovering just above his breast bone, and he’s looking at him, unsure. “Maybe you should wait outside,” he says, his voice low. Gene shakes his head no, and barely manages to keep his lunch – Scotch and, well, more Scotch – when the scalpel makes the first cut, sliding easily over Sam’s flesh like a warm knife through butter. He’s seen Sam wearing so many different expressions, so many moods. He’s seen him angry, smiling, crying, even happy sometimes. He’s seen him clothed, he’s seen him naked, he’s seen him running, walking, laughing, he’s seen him during sex. He’s seen Sam, and this isn’t him, this is just a- a piece of meat on a slab, being cut open, there’s nothing of Sam here. But it feels like it’s Gene himself the one being cut open. Gene trails his fingers slowly over Sam’s forearm, down to his wrist, his hand, his fingers. Sam’s knuckles are bruised. “He must have put up a fight before…” the doctor trails off, and Gene nods, because that’s his Sam, always fighting, stubborn bastard, fighting over everything. The doctor goes back to cutting Sam open and Gene doesn’t watch and pretends he’s looking for evidence, but his sight’s blurred and the hand in his is cold, the fingers rigid. He knows Sam’s hands, he knows his long fingers, and these aren’t them, some bastard’s taken them away. Gene drops the hand abruptly and makes for the door, barely reaching the loo before he throws up everything he has in him, even what feels like last week’s dinner. * * * Gene rubs his face and takes a deep breath before he gets out of his office to face his team, all huddled up in the squad room. They’ve got lost expressions on their faces, and he knows they’re looking up at him for guidance, and reassurance maybe, but so far all he’s got it’s two sleepless nights and the urge to smash something every time he looks at Sam’s jacket hanging behind his door. His hand on the knob, he closes his eyes and opens the door. As he’s guessed, they all turn to him, expectantly, and he doesn’t disappoint them. Hands on his hips, he wears his ‘I’m not impressed with you lot’ face and addresses the room at large. “All right, what about the door to door enquires?” Nobody answers, and he slams a fist on the nearest desk. “Well?!” he bellows, and only then Chris raises timidly his hand. “Uh, Guv…” he starts, “we’ve got a problem there…” Gene grimaces because it’s not like they need more problems, now. “What problem?” he asks. Parkman takes pity on Chris and intervenes, leaning forward. “We don’t have photos of him, Sir,” he says. “To show around.” He frowns. “That’s not possible,” he says, and tries to think of an occasion, a birthday or whatever, where some pictures might have been taken. Nothing comes to mind. “What about those from the Gazette thing? Those for Jackie Queen’s article?” Cartwright shakes her head. “I’ve already asked, but they haven’t got a clear shot of him.” He nods. “Call Hyde, then,” he says. “Ask for his family, his friends, whatever,” he sniffs and look sideways. “We should alert somebody for the… funeral, anyway.” An uncomfortable silence falls in the room, somebody clears their throat, somebody else shifts on their feet. “What about the car?” he asks, and everybody looks slightly more relieved to have something to answer to that. “Belongs to a John Craig. He has some previous,” Parkman says, handing him a sheet of paper. Gene slaps it away. “What previous?” Parkman reads the sheet. “Nothing much, a couple of burglaries.” He nods, coming away from the desk. “Where’s he, then?” Ray stands up from his chair. “Lost and Found, Guv.” “Good.” * * * “I don’t know! I swear!” Craig exclaims again, his voice clogged by the flow of blood still running down his broken nose. “I was drunk!” he says, spitting blood and saliva down his chin, on the table. Tears, as well. He’s crying, the bastard. “You were drunk!” Gene yells. “And you killed him!” “No!” Craig shakes his head. “I was at me mate’s birthday, down at the pub!” “When?” “S-Sunday!” Craig replies, and Ray has to grab him by the collar and tug to prevent him from falling off the chair when Gene slams his hands down on the table. “Sunday!” Gene repeats. “And your car was stolen! How unfortunate! How convenient.” “I swear!” Craig cries again, and Gene’s stopped counting, but he’s sure they must have set a record. “Then why didn’t you call the police?” “Because I was so arseholed I didn’t even notice until Monday!” he exclaims. “And it’s not like you could do much anyway, innit?” he continues, then spits on the ground, blood mostly. “Except beatin’ me up, of course!” Ray yanks him up, pulling him against the back of the chair. “Don’t talk that way to the Guv, you useless tosser!” “I didn’t even know him!” Craig continues. “Why would I want to kill him?” And right now, Gene is wondering the same, because this isn’t Sam’s killer, is it? This is just a daft pillock that was too pissed to notice his car had been nicked. Craig spits blood again, and Ray looks up at Gene, waiting for his decision. He shakes his head, that would be way too easy, and with Sam it’s never easy. The door opens. “Guv!” Cartwright calls him, striding in and coming to his side. When she sees Craig she grimaces and turns disapproving eyes on him. Great, so she’s even learnt The Look from Tyler. He sighs and rolls his eyes. “What do you want, Flash Knickers?” She grabs his arm and leads him away, where Ray and Craig can’t hear them. “I don’t think that’s right, Guv,” she says. “When I want to know yer opinion, I’ll ask for it,” he barks. “With all due respect, Guv, I don’t think Sam would have liked-” “Sam is lying on a bloody slab in the morgue with his throat slit from ear to ear!” he shouts. “I don’t think he likes much now, doesn’t he?!” Cartwright gapes at him, speechless. “What do you want?” She blinks and shakes her head, lowering her eyes. “Chris. He called Hyde.” * * * “What?” Chris cringes at his shout. “I- It’s true, Guv,” he stammers. “That’s not possible! Give me the bloody phone,” he commands, but snatches the receiver out of Chris’ hand before he can do anything. He grabs the piece of paper in his hands as well and dials the number. After three rings the desk sergeant picks up. “Hi, love,” he says. “I’m DCI Hunt, A Division. Put me on the phone with whoever worked with DI Sam Tyler, there.” “Are you lot daft?” she says into his ear, rather bored, and she sounds so much like Phyllis it’s actually kind of creepy. “I already told that DC Skelton that there’s no Sam Tyler here, never has been. We’ve got Tylers and we’ve got Sams, but not the two of them together.” “Listen, love,” he starts. “Me bloody DI came over from Hyde and there’s no way you haven’t heard of him. Scrawny, short hair, annoying as hell.” “You’ve just described half of the people who work here,” she replies. “Sir.” “Right, listen to me-” “No you listen to me,” she cuts him off. “I don’t care if you lot in A Division have the time to make stupid games. I don’t want to waste my time over an imaginary DI. Good day.” She hangs up. Gene stares incredulously at the receiver for a long moment, then he turns to Chris. “She hung up on me,” he says. Chris shrugs. “Told you, Guv.” He slams the receiver down. “Find me Tyler’s transfer papers.” Ten minutes later Chris comes back, a folder in his hands and toilet paper stuck to his right shoe, trailing behind him. Gene eyes it, frowning, but wisely decides not to ask about the latter. He takes the folder from Chris. “Do we know somebody who works in Hyde?” Chris frowns. “The Bo- I mean, DI Parkman,” he says after a moment. Gene shakes his head. “No, somebody else. Fletcher, maybe,” he points at him. “That mate of Ray with the daft name, Percy something or other.” Chris nods thoughtfully. “I’ll have to ask Ray.” “Fine, you go ask him, I’ll deal with this,” he says as he reads through Sam’s transfer sheet. “‘I hereby confirm blah, blah, blah’ Ah, there it is!” He takes the phone and composes the number again. “Hello, love,” he says as soon as she answers. “It’s me again!” “Let me guess,” she says. “You’re looking for DI Tyler?” “Nope,” he replies. “DCI Frank Morgan, you heard of him?” Two minutes later the bloke arrives to the phone. “Frank Morgan speaking.” “DCI Hunt, A Division,” he replies. “You approved DI Sam Tyler’s transfer here.” There’s a pause at the other end. “I did. But I thought he was supposed to come back here. I’ve sent DI Parkman as a replacement.” So he’s the one with all the legions of nancy, science-adoring DIs. Gene pictures him as some spotless sod, all perfectly dressed, shoes polished and not even a speck of dirt on his fingers. He probably has a distinguished moustache. He probably combs it. “Yeah,” he says. “He was supposed to. He’s-” he swallows, trying to force the words from his clenched teeth. “He’s dead.” There’s silence from the other end of the phone, then, “he’s… dead?” Morgan asks, as if he’s not really surprised. “That’s very…unfortunate.” His hand on the receiver squeezes so hard it starts to hurt, the other crumples up the papers. “I’d say,” he snarls, and slams down the receiver. “Soddin’ bastard!” he yells, yanking the phone up and hurling it through the room, and Lytts manages to dodge it just in time. Gene storms into his office and goes straight for the Scotch. Only when he’s got the bottle in hand, though, he realizes he’s picked up two glasses as well. He glares at them, but with a shrug he fills them both. He downs them quickly, one after the other, not really tasting the burning liquid as it goes down his throat and when they’re empty, he slams them down on the desk, maybe with more force than necessary. And there’s a blinding fury burning and stirring inside him and it’s something he can’t understand, because more than that bastard DCI, that bastard murder, he’s angry at Tyler. At Sam. Because how can a man who doesn’t exist be in so many places at once? He’s in the transcripts of the taped interviews scattered all over Gene’s desk, he’s in the new filing system, he’s in Chris’ new-found and still improving tidiness and multi-tasking skills, he’s in Annie’s presence in CID, he’s in the forgotten leather jacket hanging in his office. He’s in the two glasses of Scotch on his desk. He sweeps his hand across the desktop and shoves the glasses to the ground. They shatter on impact. There’s a knock on the door and Cartwright pokes her head in without waiting for an answer. “Are you all right, Guv?” she asks, quietly. He sniffs and sits down on his chair. “No,” he replies, truthfully. “Sam bloody Tyler doesn’t exist. But his body is still down the morgue.” She nods. “I was thinking…” “What?” “You remember the Vic Tyler case, Guv?” “Yeah,” he frowns and sits up at that. “You reckon they could be relatives?” “He said- Sam said Vic Tyler was his…” she trails off and looks at him, “his father, but-” “He was married, wasn’t he?” he says, and stands up. “Give me the address.” * * * “Hello, love,” he says and shows a lot of teeth as soon as she opens the door. “DCI Hunt, remember me?” Ruth Tyler frowns up at him, “Yes,” she nods, then continues more sternly. “I remember you. And if this is about my husband, you’re wasting your time,” Oh, the bird has a nasty temper. “I haven’t seen him and even if I had I certainly wouldn’t tell you.” He shrugs and tosses his fag to the ground. “Well, that’s too bad, love,” he pushes against the door, forcing her to take a step back and he shoulders in. “Can I come in? Thank you.” He sniffs and takes in the house, nothing much seems to have changed from his last visit here. Not that he would care, anyway. “Why are you here?” she asks, closing the front door and leaning back against it. Gene says nothing and just takes out a fag. Her face suddenly changes. “No. No!” she exclaims, bringing her hands to her mouth, her eyes widening with fear. “You’ve found him! Something’s happened! Tell me!” He snorts. “So now you wanna talk,” he puts the lighter away and goes to the living room, sitting down on the sofa, making himself at home. She’s followed him, her face still upset, her hands slightly trembling. Gene sighs. “This isn’t about your husband, love,” he tells her. “But it’s about another Tyler.” She seems instantly relieved, but she frowns, confused. “What are you-” then her face clears and she sits down. “Oh, you mean DI Tyler.” “Yeah,” he nods. “He seemed to be quite… taken with you, Mrs. Tyler.” “There’s nothing between me and him!” she exclaims,. “He is-” He cuts her off. “He was. He’s dead, love. Murdered in fact.” She blinks at him, her mouth opening and closing several times. “I’m… sorry. I…” she stands up, her hands smoothing down the wrinkles in her dress. “Would you like some tea?” Gene nods and puffs at his fag calmly, watching as the smoke curls in the air. She comes back five minutes later, with the tea and some biscuits on a tray. She pours the tea for both of them and then sits back in her chair, sipping thoughtfully. “I don’t know what to say,” she admits, after a while. Gene puts down his tea and looks at her. “When was the last time you saw him?” “At the wedding reception, when we…When Vic…” she trails off and Gene nods. “Is he- Was he a relative of your husband?” She shakes her head. “No, I had never met him before,” she shrugs, the cup tinkling softly against the plate. “He just- Actually, I found him quite…” He snorts, because as much as Sam charmed all the birds, they all seemed to think that of him at some point or another. “Weird? Barmy?” “Morbid,” she frowns. “He scared me,” she looks up at Gene with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but…” He takes a deep breath. “Well, he was-” He’s interrupted by the sound of light steps and, a moment later, a small boy comes running into the room. He looks around four, maybe five. “Mummy! Where’s my-” he stops when he sees Gene and frowns at him, and that confused expression is vaguely familiar. “Mummy is busy right now,” she tells him. The boy is still looking at him, though. “Who are you?” he asks. “Sammy!” his mother exclaims. Well, well, isn’t he a forward little fellow? “I’m a copper,” he smirks. The boy’s whole face changes into a look of wonder, his eyes widened, his mouth round, “Police?!” he exclaims, excited. “I wanna be a policeman!” Gene frowns, an uncomfortable feeling settling at the pit of his stomach. “Oh, you do?” His mother smiles indulgently and nods. “He’s already arrested Billy Sheen three times for kicking the neighbour’s cat.” “Relentless, aren’t ya?” must be the name. “Keep up with that and you’ll be a DCI before you’re thirty-five.” Little Sammy seems delighted at that. “Really?” he exclaims, then frowns. “What’s a DCI?” “That’s what I am,” he says, taking out his badge and showing it to him. “See?” The boy comes closer to look at it, his small fingers touching the metal and brushing against his. He sniffs and stands up quickly, that uncomfortable feeling back at full force. “I have to go, now. Mrs. Tyler,” he says, nodding to her, then he pats down on the boy’s head. “Sammy-boy.” She follows him to the door, the frown still on her face. “What did you want to ask me? About…DI Tyler?” He shakes his head. “You've already answered.” He turns to leave, as she holds the door open for him, when he hears quick steps, and the boy collides with his leg. “Mister! Mister Police DCI!” His mother takes him back. “Leave Mr. Hunt alone, Sammy, he’s leaving.” The kid tries to squirm away. “You dropped this!” he exclaims. He extends his hand, and a well-known chain is dangling from the small fingers. He takes a deep breath and crouches down, on eye-level with the kid. He opens his palm and the St. Christopher medal drops down. “Thanks,” he says. The kid nods. “You’re welcome!” he exclaims. Gene still hasn’t stood up, though, and he stares at the medal, a thought forming in his head. “You like it?” he asks, before he can make himself think about it. The boy frowns as if this were a very serious matter, then nods. “It’s shiny.” “You keep it, kid, then,” he says and stands up abruptly. “Really?” he exclaims, looking up at Gene, then at his mother. “Really? Can I?” She frowns, then looks at Gene. “I’m not sure…” Gene shrugs. “Go on,” he says, then he points a finger at the kid. “Now, you be careful with that, it belonged to a friend of mine, name of Sam.” The kid’s eyes become round in wonder. “Like me!” he exclaims, but then he frowns. “He don’t want it?” “He doesn’t-” he clears his voice. “He gave it to me, before he… left.” The boy nods seriously as he studies the golden chain. “My daddy left, too. Mummy said he had to,” he raises his eyes to look at Gene. “Sam had to?” “He didn’t say. He had to go back home.” “He’s home then?” Bloody hell. “I don’t know,” he swallows. “I hope so.” And this boy looks nothing like Sam – his Sam – but his movements, his gestures, no matter how immature or embryonic still, they’re familiar. The air suddenly closing on him, Gene gets out of the house as fast as he can without actually running, and as he steps outside in the sunlight he’s already breathing easier. “You bloody idiot,” he curses himself as he strides back to the car, because it’s not possible, this isn’t- It’s just a coincidence, how many Tylers are there in the phone book anyway? It’s all fault of Sam’s ramblings and his nutty trips, and now that he’s- that he’s dead, it’s messing with Gene’s head. Because it’s just not possible. But his vision is blurry, his eyes pricking, and his hands tremble slightly as he lights a fag. When he turns to look at the blue door, there’s the kid on the threshold, little Sammy, and he waves at him and smiles, and that smile- God, Gene knows that smile. * * * He’s about to start the car, when Phyllis calls him on the radio. “Come in, Alpha One,” he answers, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning back against the car seat. “Ray’s here, Guv,” she says. He nods, even though they can’t see him. “Put him on.” “Guv,” comes Ray’s voice, slightly breathless. “I’ve asked Percy. About Tyler.” “Well?” “Never been Sam Tylers in Hyde, Guv,” Ray tells him. “But there was one Sam working with DCI Morgan.” He groans. “You want to keep me ‘ere the whole day, Sergeant?” he barks. “Out with it!” “Name’s Sam Williams, DI,” Ray says. “He described him to me, and…” Ray trails off. “And?” Gene prompts, even though he knows what the answer’s gonna be. “It’s our Sam, Guv,” Ray says. Gene closes his eyes and leans his head back. Sam Williams, then. “He also told me that there’s a rumour going around Hyde.” “What rumour?” “Percy told me- He told me that he thought Williams was undercover as Tyler,” he says. “To bring you down, Guv.” “Bullshit!” he yells in the receiver, slamming it down and effectively cutting off the conversation. Sam Williams. Sam Tyler is Sam Williams, and Sam Tyler, their Sam, his Sam doesn’t exist. But it can’t be, Sam couldn’t have been so good an actor, and he wouldn’t have strived to make them better coppers if all he wanted to do was to bring them down, would he? It couldn’t have been all an act, not Sam’s relentless, not his passion, not his kisses. Gene can’t believe that, he trusted Sam, it took a while, but in the end he trusted him, following his instincts, and they’re never wrong. And he knows on some level Sam trusted him, as well. And maybe Sam Tyler doesn’t exist, but he knows the bloke he's met, the bloke he's trusted wasn’t this Sam Williams, either. He raises his head and his eyes go to the blue door, now closed. And maybe Sam Tyler is from the future. And maybe Gene Hunt’s finally gone bonkers. * * * When he enters the Railways Arms, there’s nothing really different, just a subtle shift from the usual air of high spirits you can find in any pub, to hushed voices and downcast eyes. And like in CID, there’s an empty seat beside him at the bar, and the absence has now become some sort of presence onto itself. And it’s late and he’s not making any sense at all, losing himself after some stupid philosophical crap about empty spaces or something. He usually leaves all the stuff that needs big words to be defined to- He needs a drink. Nelson lays the glass down in front of him, then looks at the stool next to him. Just an empty space. “Sam won’t come, then?” Nelson asks. And Gene knows that Nelson knows that Sam was supposed to leave yesterday, for Hyde. But Nelson seems to know everything as well, and Gene could bet his right leg and win that the crazy Jamaican isn’t talking about a bloody transfer. “No,” he replies and sips at his Scotch. Parkman sits down next to him, and signals for a pint to Nelson. And this is bloody fitting, isn’t it? The replacement filling up all the holes. Gene looks at him up and down for a moment before returning to his drink. He says nothing. “Sir,” Parkman starts, then, “Guv.” “What?” “This isn’t good for the team, Sir,” he says and for a fleeting moment he wants to smash his face in, but Parkman’s words are quiet and dull, they’re not heated, or accusing, they’re not trying to get a rise out of him, they’re not challenging. “The… team?” he repeats, thoughtfully and clicks his tongue. “What, pray tell me, do you know about the team? You’ve been ‘ere not even a week and you’re talking about the team?” And that seems to get a rise out of him, he frowns deeply. “Well, for starters I know that this isn’t good.” “So you say,” he replies. “I heard you the first time. What is ‘this’? I’m ‘fraid I left my mind-readin’ hat at home.” Parkman shakes his head and mutters. “Sam warned me about this.” “Don’t you say his fucking name!” he hisses, his hand shooting out to grab his lapels. “Don’t you say his name!” Gene is dimly aware of the eyes that are now watching the scene, frowning, but he doesn’t care, because nobody should say that name with that bloody nonchalance, as if it’s worth nothing. Because it’s not, it’s really worth nothing, and Gene doesn’t like the reminder. Sam Tyler doesn’t exist, Sam Tyler is a bloody con man, and who knows what his real name is. Was. Williams, maybe. Maybe not. And he could say it dozens of times – Sam Tyler, Sam Tyler, Sam Tyler – and it still would be worth nothing. But somehow he can’t say those words, because if they take away ‘Sam Tyler’, what is he gonna call him? A copper? A mate? Some bloke he used to shag? A nutter obsessed with science who liked loud music? People aren’t bloody reports, you can’t write a description, sign it, stamp it and file it. You at least need a name to put on the label. And Sam has none. “This is what I’m talking about!” Parkman says, and takes his hand away from the jacket. “You alternate between acting like you don’t give a shit and behaving like a lunatic!” he takes a deep breath, then, “I understand what you’re doing, you’re just being strong for them because you’re the boss. But right now I think they just need to see that you’re grieving with them.” “What are you, a bloody shrink?” Gene snorts. “So what, I should go and hold their hands and act like a queer or worse, a bloody twelve year old girl?” he shakes his head. “No, we don’t do things that way here. I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna get the bastard, we’ re gonna make him pay, then we come down the pub and toast to the memory of a man who's never existed!” He’s shouting now, and even Nelson seems to have lost all of his Jamaican charm or whatever it is. “This is precisely what I’ve been trying to tell you, Sir,” Parkman goes on, all calm and relentless, the bastard. “There’re five stages in the grieving process, right now you’re going through anger.” “And when I get to number five I win a bloody toaster?” The replacement gives up at last and stops annoying him to go back to his pint with a long- suffering sigh, and Gene thinks he’ll finally be able to finish his Scotch. “I was wondering…” Of course not. “Maybe you just need a fresh set of eyes,” Parkman says. “I’m perfectly happy with the one I have, thank you very much.” “No, I mean…” he continues, then frowns. “with Tyler’s case.” Gene sits up at that, but says nothing. “You’re all personally involved in this case. I’m the only one here who could maybe distance himself and see the bigger picture,” he says. “I'll take a look at all the reports.” Gene snorts. “Thinking outside the box,” apparently they have lots of them bloody boxes in Hyde. “Uh, yes sir. Exactly.” He nods, absently, and goes back to his Scotch, draining it and calling Nelson over for a refill. “So?” He rubs his face, and this is Sam, and they’re going nowhere right now. “Whatever,” he says. Parkman nods and finally leaves with his pint. A new glass of Scotch appears in his sight, beyond it Nelson is nodding wisely. “Sometimes, we realize what we had only when we lose it.” Gene snorts. “I know exactly what I had.” It’s that bloody prick Tyler that didn’t. All whining and moaning about wanting to go ‘home’. And when he finally gets what he wants he moans and whines because he wants to stay. ‘Things have changed’ he’s said, and maybe they have, and maybe they haven’t. Mostly Sam's kept on whining. And now he’s gone, for good, just like he said, he’s disappeared, and he can’t shake the feeling that Sam’s known all along. And maybe Gene could have stopped it, and maybe Sam could have been here right now. Or he’d still be dead, because Sam’s made a lot of enemies in his short time in A Division, but at least Gene would have carried the weight of all this empty air a tad better. Or maybe he wouldn’t, because after all it’s still empty air. He’s well acquainted with guilt, and he knows that it slowly eats away at your insides, at your mind, until you don’t know which way is up and which is down any more, until you don’t care. “Guv…” says Cartwright, behind him. Bloody hell, can’t he even drink a bleeding Scotch by himself? He downs the Scotch in one quick move, then he turns and grabs the bird’s arm, pulling her outside. “I miss the bloody sod, too,” he says, and frowns, because he certainly didn’t mean to say that. Cartwright blinks up at him. Well, now that he’s here. “So don’t go and think I don’t give a shit.” “We know, Guv,” she says, nodding. “We all miss him. Even Ray.” And now that they’re done with the soft things, he can move to more pressing matters. “Now,” he starts, lighting a fag, “tell me everything you know.” She frowns at that. “What about?” “About Sam.” “Well,” she clears her throat. “He is- was a good copper. And a good cook.” “I’m not writing his bloody eulogy!” he exclaims, because really, a good cook? He may have been a good cook, but he was also a bloody annoying cook, ‘Eat this Gene, it’s good for you’, ‘Eat that Guv, it’s got fibres.’ “I know all about your little talks about the,” he wiggles his fingers, “future. So tell me.” She frowns and looks down. “At first I thought it was just to make himself sound interesting. Mysterious, you know,” she says. “But he seemed to really believe what he was saying.” “Well, he was missing some important parts upstairs, that he was,” he nods. “What I want to know is has he ever told you about leaving, or disappearing or something?” She shrugs. “He was always saying he wanted to go home, that he was sick of 1973,” then softly. “That this, we weren’t real.” He nods again, because Sam never told him explicitly about this, even when he asked, but he’s gathered rumours and voices here and there, about his nutty moments, and his outbursts. She looks up, then, straight at him. “Why are you asking me about this, Guv?” Gene sighs. “Because up until Sunday he kept saying that he was gonna go away like it was the end of the world,” he rubs his face. “At the time he’s thought it was just Gladys being Gladys, but now…I’m wondering.” * * * Gene looks down at Sam’s face. The lights are off, and if he squints slightly he can almost imagine he’s just sleeping. Until he notices the mess that is his throat, of course. He takes the edge of the sheet and pulls it up, to cover his chin, his mouth. Sam looks just about to wake up, but he’s cold as ice. “Where are you now?” he asks in the silence of the morgue, even thought he knows the answer won’t come. “Were you even here?” * * *