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+ all these editions of you +
part two
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Charge to two hundred. Clear. Sam hears the beep of the machines, he hears the
doctors, and suddenly he’s gasping for air, re-emerging from the dark silence
he’s fallen into. He coughs, his throat raw and dry as if he hasn’t been drinking for weeks. He tries to open his eyes, but his eyelashes brush against a rough material, and he can feel something, a light weight, covering him. It’s a sheet, he discovers, and when he raises a hand and pulls it down, he’s staring at a vaguely grey ceiling. He knows that ceiling. He’s confused as to why he’s looking at it,
though. His back is killing him, and he sits up. Apparently
he’s been lying on a slab in the morgue, completely naked, his butt freezing
where it touches the cold metal. He racks his brain, trying to spark a memory as
to why he’s here, but nothing comes to mind, he’s just cold and nursing a
massive headache. If he’s got pissed at the pub and one of the guys
has thought this would be a brilliant idea…it’s probably been Ray’s,
anyway. Sam is so going to kick his arse. He slides off the slab and wraps the sheet more
tightly around his shoulders, it’s cold and the fact that he’s barefoot and
wearing nothing but his birthday suit certainly doesn’t help any. First step, find some clothes. Preferably his. On the coroner’s desk he spots a bag that seems to
contain a familiar looking shirt, he reaches for it and opens it. There are his
trousers as well, and everything is marked as evidence. When Sam takes out the
shirt and unfolds it things suddenly go from slightly confusing to very
disturbing. On the front of his favourite pale shirt there’s a
large, brown stain. He can’t tell for sure, but he’s got a feeling it might
be blood. Okay, the joke’s gone too far. “His heart stopped for a minute and a half, Mrs.
Tyler,” a voice says. “He’s stable for now, but another crisis like
that could be fatal if we don’t find what caused it.” The sheet slips from his grasp, and he lets the shirt
fall as he tries to cover himself again. Thus engaged, he can’t do nothing but
stand there, frozen, when the voices coming from the corridor get closer, and
Gene and the pathologist enter the room. “I want to-” Gene trails off as he notices the
now empty slab, then his eyes travel the room and come to rest right on Sam,
who’s still clutching the sheet to his chest. “Uh,” he says, attempting a smile, “hey, Guv?”
Gene pales considerably and he looks just a moment
away from a heart attack. Sam guesses it has something to do with the fact that
maybe he’s not really expected to walk around. His Guv turns his head to Oswald, though his eyes are
still on Sam, and he gestures vaguely. “Now, I may’ve had a tad more single
malt than usual, but damn if that’s not me DI.” Oswald nods slowly, and his widened eyes are the most
expressive emotion – if not the only one – Sam’s ever seen on his face. “Alright,” Gene clears his voice. “Last time I
saw him, he was dead.” “Apparently,” and Sam can’t help it, really.
“The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” Gene nods curtly, then takes the steps that separate
them and punches him in the face. * * * Sam adjusts the ice bag against the bruise that’s
starting to bloom on his left cheek and sighs. Gene could have refrained from
resolving issues with violence as usual. Not that he expected a breathtakingly
passionate kiss with the sun setting in the background, but he’s been dead
until five minutes ago, and a warm welcome would have been nice, for God’s sake.
He could even settle for lukewarm. On his part, he thinks he might be taking the
situation too well. Maybe he’s in shock. They’re still in the morgue, the door now locked.
He’s once again sitting on the slab, Gene pacing back and forth in the middle of the
room, stopping from time to time to look at him, as if to check he’s not
vanished, or died again. Oswald is at his desk, and for the past fifteen
minutes he’s been going over the autopsy report, muttering different
variations of ‘he was dead’ at irregular intervals. He shifts, trying to find a better position so that
he’ll be able to feel his bum again. He hasn’t moved in a long time and the
fact that he’s still bollock naked under the light sheet and sitting on cold
metal certainly doesn’t help any. “Okay,” he says. “I need clothes.” Gene sweeps his gaze from his head down to his toes,
as if he’s only now realized that Sam’s virtually naked. “Obviously,” Sam continues, when Gene turns to
look at his trousers and shirt on the coroner’s desk. “I can’t wear those,
they’re evidence.” Gene rolls his eyes. “There's a box with my personal
effects in my locker, with a change of clothes. I meant to clear it on Monday,
but…” Gene stiffens and nods. “I’ll get Cartwright to
bring them.” He frowns. “What’re you gonna tell her?” “That you’re cold.” “I’m dead, Guv,” he says. “No, you’re not.” “Well, not now,” he concedes. “But I was
until half an hour ago. How are we going to break the news to her? And to the
others?” “We’ll figure it out.” “Guv…” Gene points two fingers at him. “Not now, Tyler,”
he hisses. “Right now I’m very angry at you.” “As if that’s news,” he crosses his arms over
his chest, or tries to, the sheet keeps slipping down, threatening to expose him.
Well, it’s not like the present company hasn’t seen him naked, already.
Oswald’s even seen him on the inside. He shudders. Gene claps his hands together, apparently having
reached a solution. “Alright,” he says, drawing the attention of both him
and the coroner. “You’re still dead, for now.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Brilliant plan, Guv!”
he exclaims, then points at the slab he’s sitting on. “Where’s my body?”
“This conversation is surreal,” Oswald says,
getting up. “Yesterday I had your heart in my hand!” He swallows, feeling queasy, and judging by Gene's
slightly greenish face he doesn't feel much better. Sam lays a hand on his chest.
“Nope. Still beating,” he says, and he's got no scars, either from the...
murder, or the autopsy. It's as if he's completely regenerated. It's just as
well, actually, he really doesn't feel like starring in a Romero film, this has
already surpassed the willing suspention of disbelief as far as he's concerned. Oswald seems about to faint. “I’m going for a kip.
Maybe I’ll wake up and find this is all a dream.” Gene and Sam watch him as he wobbles to the door,
unlocks it and disappears outside. “Clothes,” Sam repeats, snapping his fingers.
“My bollocks are about to fall off.” Gene raises an eyebrow at him. “And we don’t want
that, do we?” * * * They are sitting in the interview room. The actual
interview room, the one that never gets used as suspects are brought to the Lost
and Found for questioning, because of the ‘thick walls’. Gene has assured
him nobody ever comes down here. He leans back against the chair, arms crossed over
his chest, and looks at Gene expectantly. His Guv seems to have no haste, though,
his elbow firmly planted on the table, smoking idly. “Your name,” he says, finally, “is Sam
Williams.” Sam frowns, because it most definitely isn’t.
“I-” he starts, but Gene cuts him off, slamming a
fist on the table and making him jump. “Shut up!” he exclaims. “You’re Sam Williams.
Sam Tyler doesn’t exist. Now, explain.” Sam shakes his head and sighs. “I can’t.” Gene shoots up, grabbing the border of the table and
hurling it across the room, and this time Sam gasps aloud, jumping back to avoid
being caught in Gene’s display of anger. “Don’t give me that bullshit!” Gene shouts, now
towering over him, his face set in a furious grimace. Sam shoots up, as well, “I’m not saying that I
won’t! I’m saying that I really can’t!” he yells. “I don’t
know what the hell is going on, either! Look, I-” “You don’t exist, Sam! Tyler is not even
your real name!” Gene cuts him off, taking two steps forward, crowding him.
“Who the hell are you? No, wait. Considering recent developments, maybe the
right question would be, what the hell are you?” “I exist okay?!” he exclaims, pushing against
Gene shoulders furiously, tears stinging in his eyes. “I exist!” Gene stumbles back, hitting the wall and Sam falls
against him. “I exist,” he whispers again, against his chest, and
suddenly they’re kissing. And it’s desperate and messy, because Sam didn’t
think he’d see Gene ever again after Sunday, and he supposes that Gene, too,
has felt like that, when they found him. There’s a whisper against his forehead when they
come apart. “You’re alive,” Gene says, softly, as if still can’t
believe it. “Sam.” “Yes, I’m here,” he says, his arms going around
his neck and tugging down, so that now he’s breathing against the skin of his
throat, so that he can feel Gene breathing under his lips. “And my name is
Sam Tyler. Only thing is, right now I’m four, going on five.” The hands roaming up his back still, and Gene tenses
against him. “What the-” he says, and pushes him slightly so that he can
look into his eyes. “What are you talkin’ about?” Sam shakes his head. “You’ve seen me, right?”
he asks, because he was just a small child at the time, and maybe he’s done the timeline
maths wrong. Gene frowns down at him. “I’m seeing you right
now.” “No, I mean- Sammy Tyler, have you seen him, me?
Four year old Sam.” He tries to give some sense to the words coming out from
his mouth, but it’s not that easy, considering that they’re confused even as
he thinks them. “The medal. You gave me the medal.” Gene takes a sharp breath and looks down at him, his
eyes wide in wonder. “How do you know that?” he asks. “I’m from the future, okay? Your future,” he
says, and he never thought he’d see the day when that would the most
plausible thing happening to him, but the undead factor wins, hands down.
“From 2006. I was four in 1973, Gene.” Gene’s hands on his arms tighten. “Sam-” “I got knocked over by a car,” he says,
nonchalantly, because he can afford it, he died, for God’s sake! “I’m in a
coma right now. Probably.” “You could as well be for all the sense you’re
talkin’!” Gene exclaims, pushing him away and rubbing his face. “Yeah, right,” he snorts. “Because coming back
from the dead is all rational and reasonable.” “Jesus,” Gene curses, softly. “Bloody hell,
Tyler.” “You’re telling me.” There’s a moment of silence, then. “Tony Crane,”
Gene says. Sam shakes his head at the non-sequitur and looks up
at him. “What?” “Tony Crane was telling the truth,” Gene says,
narrowing his eyes at him. “You should be in the funny farm, not him!”
“He would have killed Eve, if I didn’t do
something!” he exclaims. “He would have become one of the worst crime lords
in Manchester, if not England!” “So it’s alright when you’re the one fitting
‘em up, innit?” Gene snorts. “But when it’s me…” “It wasn’t like that! I had to act fast or-” he
shakes his head. “Look! This isn’t the time nor place to talk about this.”
“Of course not, because it’s you,” Gene
exclaims, getting into his face. “I know that, okay?” he cuts him off. “But I had no choice! And I was dying, Crane was killing me in the future!” Gene snorts and barks a laugh. “Of course!” “I wasn’t thinking!” Gene slams his palm down on the table. “That’s the most sensible thing
you’ve said, lately!” he exclaims. “You ain’t bloody thinking!”
“Gene!” Sam pleads, because he hasn’t
got the energy to embark on one of their fights, which will inevitably leave him
emotionally and physically drained. It’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s
done is wrong, but at least Eve is alive. That has to count for something,
right? Gene takes a sharp intake of breath and nods curtly,
as if steeling himself for bad news. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” “That’s the question, isn’t it?” he sighs.
“Thing is, I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m here, how I arrived
here, how to get out.” He shakes his head. “I could be mad for all I know. I
could be talking to an hallucination in a white padded room, right now.” Gene snorts. “Please, I wouldn’t waste my time as
your hallucination.” “Thank you, now I feel relieved,” he rolls his
eyes. “Or you could be all three, you know,” Gene
shrugs. “In a coma, back in time and mad.” “Stop trying to comfort me, please,” Sam glares
at him. Gene nods again, then goes to the table and rights
it. He draws up his chair and sits down, palms down on the table. “So, first
things first,” he says. “Who killed you?” Sam sits down, as well. “Well-” he starts, then
frowns “I don’t know.” The Guv blinks at him, looks down, then looks up at
Sam again. “Excuse me, what?” “I don’t remember much, actually,” he sighs,
scratching the back of his head. “It’s all sketchy, could be post-traumatic
amnesia,” he shrugs. “Repression, you know.” “Bullshit,” Gene says, slowly. He scowls. “I’ve died and come back to life, I’d
call that traumatic,” he says. “Going out on a limb here, Guv, but I’d
even define it as very traumatic.” Gene leans back against his seat. “I see your death
hasn’t cured you of your pathetic attempts at sarcasm.” He glares at him. “I see my death hasn’t cured
you of being an arsehole.” And that’s the wrong thing to say, because Gene
gives him a furious glare and stands up, almost knocking back his chair. “No, Gene, wait!” he calls out, but he’s
already left, slamming the door on his way out. “Gene-” And they’ve made jokes and tried to lighten the situation, but taking a step back and considering the situation from every angle, it doesn’t look like there’s much to joke about. Actually, ever since last week nothing’s been going well. First the transfer, then Chris catching them ‘in the act’, then him dying, then he’s not so dead any more. The only reason he doesn’t fear the Apocalypse is coming is that, being from 2006, he would have known if suddenly the Four Horsemen had started walking on the earth in 1973. Sam rubs his face and thanks God he’s not superstitious. It’s not like he can get up and go look for Gene
– officially he’s dead, after all – so he just sits there, hoping his Guv
will return at some point. As it turns out he doesn’t have to wait very long.
Ten minutes later Gene comes back, and the sharper smell of smoke and Scotch is
very telling. Sam says nothing, and just looks at him, expectantly. Gene measures the room in long, quick strides, back
and forth, back and forth. He stops a few times, but seems undecided and then
resumes pacing. Finally he settles. He leans over the table with his hands, his
right index finger punctuating every word he says by hitting the desk. “They
slit your throat from ear to ear and it was so deep, they-” he stops, and
shuts his eyes, as an almost imperceptible shudder runs through his body. He
swallows. “Your head had almost been cut off of your neck. And they left you
in a bloody boot for two days.” Sam wants so desperately to look away, to close his
eyes, because there’s something raw in Gene’s eyes, and they’re bright
with unshed tears. And this is unnatural, his Guv shouldn’t be crying,
and Sam chokes, he doesn’t want to witness this, but he owes Gene, he owes
him after everything he’s been put through. “Do you have the faintest-” his voice breaks and
he takes a deep breath. “Can you imagine what it felt like when we found you-
when we saw you?” He tries to picture what he’d do – feel
– in their place, if he’d find Gene like that, or Annie, or anybody else of
them. He can’t imagine, he just can’t. He finally lowers his eyes,
sniffing to keep the tears from falling. “No, you don’t.” Gene continues, lowly.
“I swore I’d get the bastard who did that to you, because no one, nobody
touches one of mine. And I swore that he’d regret it for the rest of his very,
very short life.” He clears his throat and looks up at him. “I’m
sorry, Guv, I didn’t mean that, I-” he whispers, but Gene cuts him off. “Except, now you’re alive,” he says. “What
should I do? Is that even murder any more? I don’t think we’ll find any
precedents for a thing like this, will we?” He shakes his head. “No.” Gene slams a hand down on the table, making him jump.
“Then who the hell I’m going to kick to a bleedin’ pulp over this? Who’s
gonna pay for all the shit we went through, eh?” he yells, then. “You tell
me Sam, because I’m just about to go completely crazy ‘ere.” Sam nods slowly, his head down in his hands. Then he
raises his eyes, rubs his face, sighs, trying to think. “Okay, uh…” he
clears his throat. “This is gonna sound strange, but…” “Oh, please!” Gene snorts. “You
couldn’t possibly top today, even if you told me you’re from Mars.”
He considers that, then nods. “Fair enough,” he
concedes. “I need to see my autopsy report,” he says, taking a deep breath.
“And the evidence found at the- at the crime scene.” Gene rolls his eyes. “Great,” he snorts.
“Now DI Lazarus wants to investigate his own murder.” Sam shrugs. “Just another day in the Twilight
Zone.” The Guv nods thoughtfully, his lips pursed. “Maybe
I’m the one in the funny farm,” he says, seriously. “Nah, you probably wouldn’t waste an
hallucination on me,” Sam says, making a vague hand gesture.
“Brazilian cubists with legs up here is more likely.” Gene gives him a long look, then slaps his hand on
the table and stands up. “I’m talking to me dead DI. I need a drink.” * * * Sam’s been staring at the folder for quite some
time now. Gene’s sitting in front of him, smoking away the wait, and Sam
doesn’t know for sure, but supposes he’s giving him some space. It’s not
everyday you’re face to face with your own autopsy, after all. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and opens the
folder. The file is very detailed, and Sam tries to keep his mind blank, tries
to think of this as some complete stranger’s post-mortem. He turns the page
and there are photos, black and white photos of his slit throat. A small
sound escapes from his lips and he can taste the bile in his mouth. He decides
to skip all the pictures, and turns them all face down, until he comes to one of
his face. Or rather, somebody else’s face. “Uh…” he says, confused. “This is not my
autopsy report.” Gene frowns and leans forward. “I fetched it meself.
I can read, you know?” he barks, but takes the folder from him to check. “Nope,”
he says. “This is yours.” Sam shakes his head and shows him the photo. “This
isn’t me.” “Right,” Gene gives him a long look. “What’re
you on about?” he asks, very slowly, as if Sam were stupid. “Of course
that’s you!” Sam thinks it’s Gene who might be stupid. Or blind,
possibly, it could explain his driving. “What are you on about?” he
exclaims. “I’m definitely not blond!” Gene blinks at him. “I think being dead has made
you more bonkers, it that’s even possible.” Sam takes a lock of hair between his fingers.
“Look!” he says, pointing at it. “It’s brown!” “You’re blond and you’ve got freckles, Tyler,”
Gene says. “Put pink bows in your hair and you’ll be the prettiest girl
around.” This is getting decidedly annoying. “This is not
me!” he exclaims, when it suddenly hits him. He takes the picture and looks at
it in wonder. “This isn't me,” he breathes. “Yeah, you already said that,” Gene snorts.
“But it still doesn’t make sense.” “This is-” “Not you,” Gene snorts and rolls his eyes. “Sam Williams,” he says, blinking down at
the photo. “I’m not really here.” Gene frowns. “I thought we’ve established that
you are, in fact, here. Real.” “No, I mean-” he shakes his head and tries to
find the right words. “I’m not physically here. My body is in a
hospital in 2006. I’m just-” “You mean to tell me,” Gene cuts him off, “that
all this time I’ve been shagging a stranger? A bloody pillock from Hyde?!”
Sam glares at him. “I see you’ve grasped the
pivotal point of this revelation, Guv,” he snorts. “As always.” “No, I don’t think you have grasped that,
Tyler!” he exclaims, then frowns. “Williams?” he asks tentatively. “No, it’s still Tyler, Gene,” he says, rolling
his eyes. “I’m the same as I was last week. Considerably more confused, but
the same, nonetheless. I’ll just have to come to terms with the fact that I’m
in- somebody else’s body…” he trails off and thumps his forehead down on
the table. “You’re doin’ a very good job, then,” Gene
snorts. He groans. “Great, I’m in bloody Quantum
Leap, now,” he thumps his head again. “Just call me Sam Beckett.” “I thought it was still Tyler.” He takes a deep breath and leans back, blinking up at
the ceiling. “Please, wake up,” he whispers. “Please!” “Who’re you talkin’ to, you nutty bastard?” “Myself, in the future,” he replies. “I want to
wake up. There is no way this is real! This is just a stupid sci-fi film
gone bad!” “Well, then. Wake up, Sam,” Gene says, and when
he looks at him, he’s serious. “Oh, I would if I could,” he tells him and sighs.
“Leave this bloody insane place and go back to reality.” The crazy
predicament he’s in right now shows so many things about his subconscious that
he’s sure he was better off not knowing. “I miss my mum, I miss Maya,” he
whispers, more to himself than Gene. “I miss sensibleness. I miss order.” Gene’s snort draws him back to reality- well, what
passes for reality around here. “What?” he frowns. “I knew it,” Gene says, shaking his head. “You
whined so much about your transfer…” he snorts again. “You know, there was
a moment when I really thought you’d rather stay here.” “But this isn’t real!” Sam exclaims, hitting
the tabletop with his palm. “How can this be real? I’ve gone back in time,
Gene! I’ve died and I’ve come back. I’m some other bloke’s body!
This can’t be real!” “If it’s all in your head…” Gene starts.
“Well, then you’re kinky, crazy bastard, Tyler!” “What? Because I like to shag my superior officer
in my seventies, ugly flat?” “No. Well, yes, that too.” Gene replies. “But
also because if all of this comes from your imagination, all those murders,
rapes, nasty bastards we’ve been investigating come straight out of yer mind!”
Gene exclaims. “And what does that tell about you?” Sam takes a deep breath and thinks about Kramer –
but that could’ve come from the case he was investigating before the accident,
couldn’t it? – he thinks of Warren, of his father. He thinks of the
Test Card Girl with her bloody clown, and what is she supposed to be? Death? His
subconscious? Just the hallucination of a girl with a bloody clown? He lets his
head fall into his hands. “And what about Harry, Sam?” Gene goes on,
his voice lower. “I had to lose him just because you wanted to teach me a
lesson?” Sam’s head shoots up at that. “No, Guv! I…”
he trails off. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who- what to
trust, anymore. I just don’t-” “I trust you, Tyler,” Gene abruptly says, and
Sam’s speechless, because despite the fact that Gene’s had access to and has
touched, and licked and kissed every part of his body, he’s never said
anything so intimate before. “Close yer daft mouth, Gladys,” he
grunts. He smiles a little. “The Sheriff and his Deputy
together against the world, eh Guv?” “I’ve seen a lot of westerns, Tyler, and I don’t
seem to remember any shaggin’ between the two of them.” “Oh, you’d be surprised at the kind of cowboys
that’s turned up lately.” “What?” “I…trust you, Gene,” he says, looking straight
at him. “I just don’t know if I can trust myself.” “Well, put it this way,” Gene says, crossing his
arms over his chest. “If I’m a figment of your imagination, then you can
trust yourself.” “And if you’re real?” “Then you can still trust me.” Sam nods, thoughtfully. “I see.” “Good,” Gene says, with a sharp nod. “Now, can
we drop all this poncey crap and start with the important bits?” “What?” Sam snorts, rolling his eyes. “Shagging?”
Gene frowns, “I wasn’t thinking about that,” he
says. “But yeah, that too.” “What were you thinking about, then?” “Who the hell is Sam Williams and what’s he
doin’ here?” * * * Relegated to the interview room, Sam has nothing to
do but go over the crime scene reports and the witness statements to occupy his
time until the end of the shift, when Gene’s promised to smuggle him out of
the CID and take him somewhere safe, where nobody will find him. Knowing Gene
it’s probably a pub. He sighs, all the queasiness at thinking of himself
as the victim replaced by boredom, now. He’s hungry, as well,
but not so much as to seriously consider the bacon butty Gene has so graciously
brought him from the canteen. He’s been eyeing it for the past half and hour,
though, and he’s worried sooner or later he’ll end up eating it, despite
himself. If this isn’t real he doesn’t have to worry about cholesterol, does
he? He leafs through the notes Chris had transcribed
about his flat and frowns when he comes to the bottle of wine on the table and
the cups in the sink. Apparently he had somebody over. Somebody who was not Gene, or
he would have said. But why the cups set to dry and the bottle left on the table,
instead? Gene said that he left the Railway Arms with Malcolm on Sunday and,
judging by the statement Jack Travis, his neighbour, gave, they arrived at his
flat around midnight. He doesn’t remember that, as he doesn’t have any
recollection of the phone calls he made later, or of the stuff he needed to talk
to Gene about. For him, last Sunday is mostly a blur of vague images and
impressions. Partial amnesia can be traced back to a blow to the
head, or a trauma and, by the looks of the autopsy report, Sam’s got a bit of
both. And it’s frustrating, because they’re just one step away from getting
their killer – his killer – and maybe it’s not their only problem
at the moment, but at least they could check one item off of their very long
‘What The Hell Is Going On?’ list. Of course, everything would be much easier if he
could question the witnesses himself, or have a talk with Malcolm, who
apparently is the last person to have seen him alive. Apart from the murderer,
of course. His stomach rumbles and he stretches a hand towards
the greasy monstrosity, when suddenly the door inches open. “The light’s on,” comes Annie’s whispering
voice. “Nobody ever uses this, but I’ve seen the Guv come in here a couple
of times.” “You don’t reckon he’s blown his top after the
Boss…” and that’s Chris. Fuck. Oh, fuck. And now the door’s completely open, Annie and Chris
standing on threshold, gaping at him, and Sam frozen, with his bacon butty
suspended on the way to his mouth, gooey grease dripping down his wrist. “Hey,” he says, feebly. Chris faints. * * * “I knew your daft plan wasn’t going work,” Sam
hisses, as he sneaks a peek through the blinds of Gene’s office. Everybody is in the squad room, a captive audience to
Chris and Annie’s animated account of the facts. “It’s not like you had a better plan yourself,
wonder clogs,” Gene replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a
folder from his desk and passes it to Sam. “This is what Oswald came up with.”
Sam gives a quick read, then snorts and shakes his
head. “What?” Gene barks, stopping in the process of
pouring himself a Scotch. He gives him an incredulous look. “This says I was
drugged and only presumed dead!” he exclaims, tossing the folder onto the
desk. “According to this,” he continues, “the wound was in no way fatal!”
Gene shrugs and tosses back the Scotch. “I seriously doubt anybody will believe that, Guv!”
“Well, you certainly don’t look dead to me,”
Gene replies, giving him a cursory glance. He sighs and sits down. “I don’t even have a
scratch on me!” Except for the imprint of Gene’s knuckles on his cheekbone,
of course. Gene rolls his eyes and rummages in his drawers for a
while, until he comes up with a first aid kit, and frankly Sam doesn’t want to
think about how long it’s been there. Probably before this became Gene’s
office. Sam looks down at the kit in his hands, then frowns
at Gene. “What am I supposed to do with this?” “Make yourself a bandage,” he replies, downing
the last of his drink. Sam sighs, but opens the kit and takes out some gauze.
“I still think nobody will believe this farce.” Gene looks at him. “They will,” he says.
“Because everybody knows the alternative is impossible.” Sam glances up at him, frowning. “How come you
believe me, then?” “I already knew you were an impossible bloke, Tyler,”
Gene replies. “Ever before this whole zombie stunt.” Sam laughs out loud at that. “Yeah, look at me. I'm
zombie Sam,” he finally manages to stick the gauze into place
and turns to Gene. “Well?” Gene shrugs. “Alright.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not supposed to look alright.”
“You look alright for a supposedly dead bloke,”
Gene replies. Sam glares at him. “Guv.” “Like death warmed over.” “Gene.” “Give over, Gladys,” Gene exclaims, smacking him
on the shoulder. “It’s not like that lot out there will question the fact
that you’re alive. If you’re lucky, you’ll even get a kiss from the plonk.”
Sam smirks sideways at him. “You’re jealous,”
he tells him. “Why would I be?” Gene shrugs. “It’s not like
she’s the one shaggin’ you into every surface available,” he says,
matter-of-factly. Sam chokes and he can feel himself blushing. He
doesn’t remember Gene ever being this forward about their ‘little
agreement’ as he’s called it, once or twice. “Here,” Gene says, tossing him his jacket. He blinks at him, his hands gripping the familiar
leather. “Where was this?” Gene nods to the coat rack behind the door.
“Cartwright said you left it at The Railway Arms.” “You kept it,” he says, sliding his arms in the
sleeves and buttoning down the front. Gene rolls his eyes and lights a cigarette. He
mutters something like ‘bloody girly poof’ under his breath, but then he
raises his head and looks straight at Sam. “You’d've given me hell if we
lost it, wouldn’t you?” Sam bats his eyelashes at him. “Can I get a kiss
from you instead?” Gene gives him a long look, then thumps him on the
back of the head. Sam is still grinning when Gene opens the door and
all the eyes of the people in the room turn on him. For a moment the silence is
absolute and everything seems suspended, but then Annie comes forward and hugs
him tightly. “You’re alive,” she whispers against his ear, and when she
comes away her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Yep,” Gene says. “Our boy wonder here’s had
a bad case of 'somebody slipped me a mickey’.” “Again?” somebody mutters. “What do you mean?” Malcolm exclaims, gaping at
Sam. “I saw him, he was dead!” “Nah,” Gene shrugs. “Just a very nasty drug, he
only looked dead.” At that Sam really has to force himself not to roll his
eyes or snort, and the quelling glare Gene’s sending his way certainly helps.
“So, who’s up for the pub?” he asks the room at large, raising his hand,
but everybody’s still looking at Sam with widened eyes. “Tyler’s buying,”
Gene says the magic words, and all the hands in the room raise. Sam glares at
him, Gene smirks. “Good then!” he exclaims, turning towards the exit, but he
stops short when the doors open and a tall man Sam’s never seen before enters.
“Ah, Sam,” the stranger says, looking straight at
him, then he frowns confused. “I thought you were dead.” “And who you might be?” Gene asks, hands on his
hips. The man turns to him, extending his hand. “DCI
Frank Morgan,” he says. “From Hyde.” Gene takes a step forward, coming to stand right
between him and Morgan, he ignores the outstretched hand. “He’s not dead, as you can see,” he says. “Well, that’s most-” “Fortunate?” Gene cuts him off, and for a
moment it feels like they're engaged in some sort of silent communication,
mostly consisting of angry glares from Gene and bemused looks from Morgan. But then Morgan inclines his head in a concillatory
gesture and smiles warmly. “Of course,” he says, then he looks in his
direction. “Sam, how do you feel?” He frowns, because apparently he’s supposed
to know this man, and his voice is indeed familiar, but he can’t quite place
it, and the sight of him doesn’t spark any particular memory in his mind. He
just nods. “Good, good,” Morgan says, almost to himself,
then smiles again. “And you came all this way from Hyde just to ask how was he feeling?” Gene asks. “You could have picked up the phone.” “Of course not, Mr. Hunt,” he replies. “I came here to take part in the
investigation of my DI’s murder,” he glances at Sam. “Well, of course,
it’s only assault now, but the case still stands.” Gene snorts. “You came this far for nowt, then.
We’re already investigating.” “As of last Monday, DI Tyler is
officially under my command,” Morgan says, shaking his head. “And because of
that I’m directly involved in the investigation. I never leave a man
behind.” Gene scowls at him. “Neither do we.” Sam clears his voice, diverting the attention on
himself. “I’m still in the room, you know,” he says. “DCI Morgan, Sir,
I’m sure the Guv would gladly accept the help,” he pleasantly tells him,
ignoring the glares Gene’s sending his way. “But as he said, we’re
investigating, and despite my temporary loss of short term memory, catching the
culprit is just a matter of time. Our success rate is impressively high.” Morgan narrows his eyes at him. “I… see,” he
nods. “Good!” Gene claps his hands together. “Pub?”
* * * Sam observes intently the beer in his glass as it
slowly whirls around, following the circular motions of his hand. He’s sat at
the bar, as always, but there’s Morgan on the stool next to him, and Gene’s
nowhere to be seen, the last he’s heard of him he was loudly proclaiming his
need of the loo. It’s strange, because you’d think the Guv would stick
around him like a dog with his bone, after all that territorial pissing in the
office. Of course, back then there was no pissed pissing involved. He snorts at
his terrible pun and almost knocks his forehead into his glass. He frowns down at his glass, then up at Nelson.
“How many did I have?” “Even I can’t count that high,” Nelson says,
with a smirk. Sam doubts that, otherwise he would close shop within
a week. “I might be slightly pissed, then,” he says, frowning. “I don’t think you should drink anything more,
Sam.” Morgan tells him, nodding to Nelson. “I think I shall,” Sam declares, though. He’s
back from the dead, that’s cause for celebration, right? Just like- like-
“Isn’t there a film where the bloke’s dead but he isn’t really?” he
asks, to nobody in particular. And maybe he shouldn’t have said that out loud,
because now Morgan is giving him weird glances. Nelson smiles and puts a chaser in front of him.
“There you go, Sam,” he says. “Felicitations on your resurrection.” He frowns. “Who told you that?” he asks, but
Nelson just smirks “Nelson!” he calls, grabbing his sleeve, as the
barman makes to go. “Nelson.” “Yes, mon brav?” “Sunday,” he starts. “I was here.” Nelson nods. “Yes.” “What happened?” he asks. “I don’t remember.”
“You were drinking at the bar with him,” he
replies, nodding in the direction of Malcolm, who’s now sitting with the
others, sending glances in his direction every once in a while. “And?” “You talked about a lot of things,” Nelson says.
“Strange things.” “What strange things?” “Drunk man words, Sam,” he replies, winking at
him. “Nothing to worry about.” Sam frowns and shakes his head. He remembers talking
with Malcolm in the CID canteen, before Gene came to interrupt them. They talked
about 2006, mobile phones, DNA analysis, and Doctor Who. And he remembers
telling him that he’s got to keep fighting, and that he shouldn’t talk to
radios and TVs, no matter if they seem to address you directly, it just doesn’t
work. He figured all he has is experience, and he could spare Malcolm the pain
of being seen as another ‘nutter from Hyde’. “When I heard Hunt had requested for you to
transfer back,” Morgan starts, looking straight at him. “I thought he’d
started to suspect something.” He frowns, that doesn’t make much sense, but maybe
it’s Sam that’s too bladdered. He squints at him, trying to keep his face
into focus. “What?” But Morgan goes on as if he hasn’t heard him.
“You were doing a very good job,” he says, and still Sam doesn’t know what
the hell is going on. “And when I received the news of your…death, I
thought you’d been found out.” He blinks up at him. “What are you talking about?”
he asks, very slowly. “Sam?” Morgan frowns. “Are you all right?” He sniffs. “More or less, yeah.” “I thought-” he starts, then stops. “You don’t
remember?” This is getting seriously annoying, not to mention
disturbing. Sam feels like everybody around him is always a few steps ahead of
him and he’s left to struggle on trying to keep up. “Remember what?” “Your job here.” Sam frowns. “I’m a copper, a DI,” he says.
“That’s it.” Morgan looks at him, as if stricken, then he shakes
his head, desolate. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you do this, after that
accident.” And suddenly Sam is not so drunk any more, he sits up
in his stool. “What accident?” he hisses, darting glances around them
to see if anybody is within earshot. Morgan looks at him and he’s about to answer, when
his gaze shifts to something behind Sam and he stops. A hand lands heavily on
Sam’s shoulder, followed by an unsteady Gene crashing against him, almost
toppling both of them to the ground. “Sammy-boy!” Gene exclaims, patting him on the
head, then he turns to Morgan. “DCI Frank Morgan from Hyde. How are you this
fine evening?” “You saw us just ten minutes ago, before you went
to the loo, Guv.” Sam says, trying to disentangle himself from his grip. It’s
useless, of course. “You’re pissed.” “Am not.” “Yes, you are,” Sam replies tiredly, feeling as
if they’ve done this countless times before. They have, in fact. “Fiver says I’m not.” “I say you are,” he replies, standing up. When
the pub stops swirling around, he tugs on Gene’s sleeve. “Come on Guv,
let’s get you home.” A hand on his arm stops him in his tracks, and Sam
turns to look at Morgan. “We’ll continue this conversation later, Sam.” He frowns at him, but Gene is pressing into his side,
breathing against his face, and it’s starting to have an effect on Sam, a
quite obvious effect that everyone’s going to notice if they don’t leave at
once. “Sure,” he nods at him, then turns and half drags,
half pushes Gene out of the pub. As soon as they’re outside, Gene straightens up,
letting his arms fall from Sam’s shoulders and middle, and calmly lights
himself a smoke. Sam frowns at him. “You’re not drunk.” Gene shoots him a glance. “Told you,” he replies
with a shrug. He shakes his head with a snort. “Why all the act,
then?” “Wouldn’t want him to suspect something, would we?”
his Guv replies. He gapes at him. “What the hell are you talking
about?” he bursts out, abruptly. “Are we in some sort of spy story or conspiracy
film and nobody’s told me?” Gene arches an eyebrow at him. “What’re you on
about?” He throws his arms open with a incredulous shout. “What! Everybody is taking me to one side, and talking to me about facts, people as if I should know them, when in fact I don’t!” he exclaims. “Did I miss the memo? Am I in the middle of one, big cosmic joke?” Gene gives him a look, then snorts. “Typical,” he says. “Sam Tyler at the
centre of the universe.” “What the hell is going on?!” he
practically screams. Gene grabs his arm and manhandles him to his car. He
opens the passenger door and all but throws him inside, then he makes his way
around and gets in the driver seat, and Sam’s already seen this somewhere. Oh right,
it happens every other Friday. “You’re just lucky I’m not that picky right now,
in regards of partners,” he tells him, once he’s sat down. “Please, Tyler. You’re a kinky little bastard,”
Gene says, sneering at him. “Nothing like a good slappin’ to get you goin’.”
Sam rolls his eyes and sighs. “All romance, you
are.” “Why would you need romance, when you’ve got
me?” “I wonder that myself,” he snorts. “Right,” Gene sniffs, looking out the side window
at the door of The Railway Arms. “Ray found something out about Williams,”
he says, turning back to him. Sam frowns. “What exactly?” “Apparently Williams– you used to work
under Morgan, in Hyde,” he says, and his face is so serious that Sam doesn’t
bother correcting his slip. “Rumour has it, you’re here undercover.” “Undercover?” Gene nods. “To bring me and the team down.” “What?” Gene is frowning at him. “Tell me it’s not true,
Sam.” He snorts. “Of course it’s not-” he starts, but
stops. Because what does he know? Maybe it is. That could explain the
weird stuff Morgan was telling him earlier, ‘You were doing a very good job’
and ‘I thought he suspected something.’ “Sam?” Gene says, lowly, warningly. He slams a palm against the dashboard. “Fucking
bastard!” he exclaims, taking Gene by surprise. “Sam, will you-” the Guv starts, but Sam turns to
him, grabbing him by the lapels of his coat, their positions for once reversed. “It was Sam Williams!” he hisses. “It was him
undercover! I’m Sam Tyler, how many fucking times do I have to tell you?!”
he screams into his face. His breathing is ragged and Gene is blinking at him
with something akin to fear in his eyes, and he really can’t blame him, he’s
acting like a bloody schizophrenic. As if burned, he abruptly lets go and folds
onto himself, his head down into his hands, forehead touching the dashboard, as
he takes deep, shuddering breaths. “I’m going crazy. I’m fucking insane,”
he sobs. A hand awkwardly pats his back, then starts actually
stroking him, small circles around his shoulders. “Let’s get you to bed,
eh?” Gene says softly. “A good night of sleep will do you wonders.” He clears his throat and nods, running a hand across
his face and leaning back against the seat. “Thanks,” he says, after a moment. Because he
still hasn’t called the men in white coats. Because Sam is insane and Gene
certainly doesn’t need this. Gene grunts in acknowledgement and revs the engine.
“You owe me a fiver.” * * * Sam comes awake with a gasp and almost falls off the
bed in a tangle of sheets and limbs. He blinks up, but it’s only his ceiling, familiarly
ugly, above him. He sits up, rubbing his eyes, and takes deep breath trying to
calm down, to slow his racing heart. The vest he’s wearing is sticking to his
skin, and the pillow and the mattress are soaked with cold sweat. Nightmares. Jesus, as if sleeping weren’t already an issue. And he’s pretty sure that one had something to do with his- the murder. And as much as he wants- needs to remember, he’s not really that eager, maybe sleeping in his flat hasn’t been the brightest idea. Not that he's got any choice in the matter. He stands up and goes to the sink to drink some
water, his thr The TV is turned on. He shuts his eyes, swallowing, and when he reopens
them, the Test Card is empty. “Poor Sam, there’s blood in your dreams,” the
well-known voice taunts him. He doesn’t turn, and just looks ahead. “Round and round, history repeats,” she says. “Shut up,” he hisses, his lips pressed tightly in
a thin, long line. “But poor Sam doesn’t know,” she says. “He
doesn’t remember.” “Shut up!” he cries out, hurling the glass across
the room. It shatters against the wall and she goes away for
the rest of the night. * * * When they arrive to the crime scene, Malcolm reaches
them, ducking under the rope. “Sir,” he says, to Gene, then frowns at Sam.
“Sam, what are you doing here?” He’s taken aback by the surprise in his voice and
he blinks. “I work here.” “I thought you asked for a transfer?” he says.
“That’s why I’m here, to take your place.” A heavy hand lands on Sam’s shoulder, pushing him
forward, “Sammy ‘ere isn’t leaving,” Gene says. “Not until we solve
that little nasty business about who shut him in that boot.” The hand on his
shoulder tightens, and Sam shoots a look his way, but Gene is smirking at
Parkman. “Of course, Sir,” Malcolm nods. “I was just
surprised.” He turns around and gestures for them to follow him. “Cheeky bastard,” Gene hisses through his teeth. Sam rolls his eyes. “Now you’re just being hard
on him, Guv,” he tells him. “He thinks he can come here and act as if he’s-”
“What? The king of the jungle?” Sam cuts him off.
“I seem to recall somebody telling me the same thing once.” Gene looks down at him, he sniffs. “That was
different.” “How?” Sam sneaks a glance at him, grinning. “Okay, not so different,” Gene grunts, as they
make their way down the slope. “But I’ve already broken you in, it would be
a waste.” Sam snorts, but smiles despite himself. Malcolm looks up at them, from the bottom of the
slope. “Careful on the way down, it’s slippery.” But before he finishes his warning, there’s a curse
from behind them and Ray, the clumsy one for once, comes tumbling down and
sweeps them away, in a blur of legs and arms. When they finally come to a stop, Sam is being
squashed down under the combined weight of Gene and Ray, somebody’s elbow
painfully thrust into his back. Gene is hurling insults left and right, and Ray
must be very flustered and embarrassed because he offers a hand to Sam
without batting an eye, nor sneering down at him. He just keeps blinking at Gene
as if he can’t believe he’s just mowed down his Guv. Gene is still spitting
curses as he tries to scrub all the mud off him, and Sam has to look away before
he bursts out laughing. “You all right Guv?” Chris asks from the top of
the slope, Annie beside him, looking down. Gene starts insulting them as well, and Sam walks
away sniggering before he becomes the target of his wrath as well. He wipes the
mud off his face, but probably only manages to spread it more, and reaches
Malcolm’s side next to the victim, schooling his features into seriousness. “What do we have?” Malcolm nods in the direction of the body covered
with a white sheet, two PCs hovering around it. “A woman,” he says.
“Doesn’t look like she’s been raped.” Sam kneels by the body and lifts the sheet, peering
under it. The young woman is lying face down on the ground, her blonde hair
covering her features. “Could be an attempted rape gone wrong,” Malcolm
says and shrugs. “Is there a rape gone right?” Gene snorts,
materializing at his side, his hair in disarray and a long brown stripe of mud
going from his left cheek to his ear. “No, I meant-” “You science poofs found anything yet?” the Guv
asks, looking down at covered victim. “No, Guv,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “We’ve
just arrived.” “So get down to work, then, eh?” Gene says,
giving both of them a pat on the back, then he leaves. Malcolm looks down. “Where are those guys from CSI
when you need them?” “Thirty years away, I’m afraid.” They both snort, and for a moment Sam thinks this
might just work. * * * Or not. “Amnesia?” Sam repeats blinking. Morgan nods. “You had an accident just before you
started working here,” he says. “I should have stopped you, but you seemed
to be all right.” Sam raises a hand. “Wait,” he says. “I want to
check if I’ve got this right.” Morgan nods, letting his hands fall from the wheel.
They’re in his car, and right now Sam curses himself for having been so stupid
as to agree to meet him, ‘away from the eyes and ears of the CID’, as he
said. “My name is Sam Williams, and I’m undercover as
Sam Tyler to bring down Gene Hunt and his team,” he says, but he already knew
that. “But coming over here I had an accident, bumped my head, forgot all
about this.” “Yes,” Morgan replies, nodding. “And to overcome the amnesia I made a life for
myself, as Sam Tyler.” Morgan’s nodding becomes more sure, a small,
satisfied smile widening on his lips. “Exactly,” he says. “And you’re actually my father and I should come
over and join you on the Dark Side,” he dead-pans. At that Morgan frowns,
uncomprehendingly. He sighs and shakes his head. “I see you’re not taking this seriously,”
Morgan says, with a disapproving tone, and that might be the understatement of
the century. “I was really worried when I saw you were transferring back, Sam.”
He nods, looking out the passenger window. It’s
raining. “Yeah, yeah, and when you heard I was dead you thought-” he sits up
sharply and turns around to look at him. “Wait, when you said you were afraid
I’d been found out, you didn’t mean…” he trails off, but the expression
on Morgan’s face tells him all he needs to know. “You thought Gene had
killed me!” he almost shouts, leaping forward to grab the lapels of
Morgan’s suit jacket. “He’d never do something like that!” Morgan is staring at him, disbelief all over his
features, and maybe Sam’s slightly over-the-top, because he’s never engaged
violent behaviour towards a superior officer, before. Except Gene. And Litton of
course, but like his Guv, he sees him more as a despicable individual than a
proper DCI. He lowers his eyes, and slowly lets go of him,
sitting back in his seat. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Sir.” “This isn’t you, Sam,” Morgan says, and Sam
almost snorts, because what does he know? He manages to keep himself under check,
though. “Being near him has changed you. Maybe the transfer isn’t such a bad
thing.” He raises his head at that. “I thought-” he
frowns. “Gene’s requested my staying here, Malcolm’s coming back.” Morgan smiles and shakes his head. “Malcolm is
staying here, Sam,” he says. “He was our contingency plan.” “Our…contingency plan?” he repeats, blinking. And is Hyde a codeword for people who fall into comas
and are employed in undercover operations in a different timeline? Is this some
sort of recycling? Because frankly, right now he’s got no expectations
regarding his current situation. Best case scenario, he’s in a coma and back
in time. Worst case scenario, he’s mad. Although the spectrum is kind of
blurry, and the best and the worst are often interchangeable. “You mean, Malcolm works with you?” he exclaims.
“Assuming Malcolm Parkman is his real name, and not his undercover one.” Morgan frowns at him. “Of course he works with us,
don’t you remember?” and this time Sam rolls his eyes, because really, his
hallucinations or whatever they are could do with a bit of continuity.
“Metropolitan Accountability and Reconciliation Strategy,” Morgan tells him,
as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “M.A.R.S.” “Of course, another man from ‘Hyde’,
from your team,” he wiggles his fingers. “Really clever. Gene
won’t suspect a thing!” “Can’t you see, Sam?” Morgan says, gently.
“You’ve got too close, you’ve lost sight of the goal.” “What are you-” he starts, his eyes narrowing, a
terrible suspicion growing, and clawing his way out. Morgan shakes his head. “This isn’t healthy for
you, Sam,” he says, and Sam knows that he knows. “Who told you?” he asks, his voice almost
inaudible, but he already knows the answer. Words spoken in his flat, clear in
his mind, despite the vague recollecting he has of That Evening. “After all, I’m not sleeping with the boss.”
“What?” “You know, I didn’t remember the ‘70s as
being this gay, then I watched closer.” Malcolm. “Although it could play to our advantage,” Morgan
continues, “it would certainly ruin his reputation.” Sam blinks at him, slack-jawed, and for a moment he
thinks he’s misheard him, because there’s no way he’d suggest something
like that. But Morgan still has that calculating glint in his eyes, and
while he doesn’t look particularly pleased, he’s not that opposed to the
idea. “And mine!” he exclaims. “Why would I
willingly give you material that would make me the laughing stock of the whole
division?” “You’d ruin only Sam Tyler’s reputation,”
Morgan says, sensibly. “You’re DI Sam Williams, soon to be DCI.” “What do you-” he sputters. “Jesus! You
want me to play the whore?!” he exclaims. “And for what? Because you
have something against Hunt?!” “I don’t ‘have something against Hunt’,”
Morgan frowns. “I thought we agreed this assignment was a necessary step down
the road to a new way of policing.” “That’s not what this is,” he snorts. “This
is a fucking crusade against one man!” Morgan’s features become as if set in stone. “Officers,”
he says, “and men, like Gene Hunt, take one down and the whole castle of cards
tumbles down.” “Officers like Gene Hunt?” Sam hisses. “You
have no idea what kind of officer Gene Hunt is, much less what kind of man!”
he yells at him, then he throws open the car door and gets out, slamming it shut
behind him. He leaves, seething, his boots hitting the wet
asphalt at a fast pace. * * * The morning after finds Sam sitting on the couch in
Gene’s office, with his head in his hands, nursing a hell of a hangover and
with barely four hours of sleep in two days on his shoulders. Waiting for his
Guv, his face is slipping down, leaving a wet trail down his wrist, and he tilts
and almost falls down three times before he actually starts to consider
stretching down on the lumpy sofa for a kip. He’s just lain down when the door opens and Gene
storms in. There’s a long pause, presumably due the fact that Gene’s noticed
his presence in his office, then the door slams shut, the blinds clattering
against the glass. “Tyler!” he exclaims. “You look like something
the cat brought in.” He sits up, scratching the back of his head, blinking.
“Uh,” he says, confused. “I slept in the car.” Gene stops on his way to the desk and turns to look
at him, frowning. “And why on earth did you? Lost the keys?” he asks. “You
could’ve kicked in the door.” Sam rolls his eyes, because that’s the kind
of advice Gene would give. He doesn’t answer the question, though, it doesn’t
matter if Gene’s sort of believed him until now, he certainly doesn’t want
to test his patience with tales of Test Card Girls coming out of TVs and
nightmares and voices from the future. “I spoke with Morgan yesterday,” he sighs,
sinking against the back of the couch. Gene freezes for a moment, but then he
gives a curt nod, and Sam takes it as a permission to go on. “It’s what you-
what we feared,” he says. “I was supposed to work undercover and provide
enough evidence to build a case against you.” Gene sits down at his desk, levelling a long look at
him. “You’re not gonna do that now, are you?” “Of course not.” “No problems, then,” he says. “Enough with your
bloody broodin’.” Sam shakes his head. “It’s not that simple.” Gene frowns at him. “What do you mean?” “Malcolm works for him, as well,” he says. “Parkman is goin’ back to Hyde next week.” “No bloody way!” Gene bursts out. “I’m not
letting you go, now that-” he stops, his eyes widening and his jaw tightening
as if he’s let out more than he’s meant to. Sam ducks his head, but he can
feel the corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile. “Anyway,” Gene
clears his voice. “I’ll go to the Super and sort this out.” “No, Guv,” he says, rubbing his face. “I
haven’t told you everything, yet.” Gene leans forward and latches his fingers over his
desk, he hangs his head, sighing. “Why do I have the feeling that I’m not
gonna like it?” “Because you won’t,” Sam replies. “Morgan
knows.” Gene frowns. “Morgan knows what?” “Morgan knows,” he repeats, and he can see
in Gene’s eyes the exact moment he gets it. “Guv…” Gene shoots up, slamming his hands down on the desk.
“Who told him?!” he yells. “Malcolm did,” he replies, and even though he’s
braced himself for the outburst, he still cringes when Gene slams down his hands
again, and again, and again. “Parkman did?! And who told him?” “He- guessed?!” Gene shouts. And now it’s
the turn of the filing cabinet. Sam turns and peers outside, through the blinds, the
few people in the squad room are looking in the direction of the office with
ill-concealed alarm, and talking among themselves in hushed tones. “Uh, you might want to keep it down, Guv,” he
says. “You don’t want to advertise it.” Gene’s panting now and he drops in his chair behind
the desk. He rubs his face and gets a hold of his Scotch, considers it for a
moment, then decides to drink straight from the bottle, bypassing the glass
altogether. Sam looks at him for a moment, then lowers his head,
rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s why I’ve decided to resign.” Gene coughs and sputters, as the Scotch goes down the
wrong way, and maybe he should have waited until he had finished. The Guv slams
the bottle down, stands up and comes to the sofa. Sam is grabbed by the collar
and literally heaved up to his feet. “What?!” Gene barks into his face. “Guv…” “What the hell is goin’ on in that bloody noggin
of yours?” Sam shakes his head, because it’s not easy, really.
And maybe going back to Hyde means dying, giving up, or maybe he’ll wake up
and forget all about this absurd fantasy his comatose brain has fabricated. And
if he’s really back in time...Well, then he can’t risk the lives of his- friends.
“I can’t stay here any longer, I’m already a danger to you!” he exclaims.
He rummages through his pockets and comes up with his badge, he considers it for
a moment, the fingers following the shape of the cold metal. He closes his eyes
and pushes it into Gene’s hand. Gene looks down at it as if he can’t believe what
he’s seeing, then his face morphs into a snort of anger, and he thrusts Sam
back, his palm on his chest, he pushes and pushes, as if he wants to shove the
badge under his skin, inside his flesh. Finally, Sam’s shoulders his the wall, but Gene’s
still pushing, and they’re face to face, Gene’s eyes wide and bright with
fury. “I’m not accepting that badge from you, Sam,” he growls into his
face. “You have to!” he pleads, this is bloody
hard, and Gene can’t refuse, or Sam will forget all about his
resolutions and cave in. And he can’t afford that, they can’t afford
that. “No.” Gene says simply. He shakes his head. “Look, Morgan has stopped just
one word away from saying he has or can get blackmail material,” he sighs.
“I don’t think-” “So we stop it.” And Sam looks up at that,
frowning. “Now don’t look at me like that. You said it yourself, it could
ruin us.” “I’m more worried about you, Guv,” he says.
“Sam Tyler doesn’t exist, after all.” He shrugs and snorts, trying to
lighten the situation, but it comes out more bitter than he intended, “and
everybody already calls me a poofter, anyway.” “Don’t be an idiot!” Gene exclaims. “Of
course you exist,” he says, smacking him on the shoulder. “See that? I can
touch you, you exist.” He rolls his eyes and glares. “Aww, you’re a dear,
now don’t you go and make me cry.” “Twat,” Gene gives him a look, then he glances
down at his hand, still pressing the badge against Sam’s chest. “Agreed then?”
He lets his head fall back against the wall and
thumps it, once, twice. He should be more firm, he should- He sighs and pinches
the bridge of his nose. “All right,” he whispers, taking the badge from
Gene. “We have to tell them,” Gene says after a moment,
looking out in the direction of the squad room. “You can’t,” Sam shakes his head. “They’ll
start to act funny around Malcolm and he’ll suspect something.” The Guv frowns down at him. “You don’t have much
faith in them, do you?” “It’s not-” he stops and sighs. “Look, can
you guarantee that you’ll get them to properly follow procedures?” Gene
snorts, but he goes on, relentless, “because that’s the only thing that can
keep you afloat, right now. Malcolm still hasn’t witnessed anything
particularly despicable, so…” he trails off when he sees the Guv look away,
clearing his throat. “Has he?” he frowns, suspicious. Gene sniffs. “We had to bring in the owner of the
car we, um, found you in,” he replies. “But Parkman wasn’t there.” “Guv-” “Listen, I-” He draws up his hands. “All right, all right!” he
exclaims. “But from now on straight as an arrow and clear as crystal,” he
says. “Now, do you think they can manage that?” “I trust them. Don’t you?” “I trust them to try as hard as they can,” he
replies. “Doesn’t mean they can do it.” Sam sighs, but follows Gene out of the office a
moment later. * * * “I’m mad,” he says to the empty room. “I’m
mad,” he repeats, then, more sure. “Are you?” she asks, coming towards him, the
bloody clown clutched against her chest. “I am,” he says, nodding and tossing back the
last of the Scotch in his glass. “I’m talking to a girl that’s come out of
the bloody telly.” “But when are you mad?” she says. “1973?
2006?” He snorts. “I could be mad in both for all I know.”
“But who is mad? Sam Tyler?” she goes on, taking
another step toward where he’s sitting down on the floor. “Sam Williams?” “I’m Sam Williams. I’ve got amnesia. Sam Tyler
doesn’t exist.” She shakes her head. “But you’re Sam Tyler.” He frowns, because that’s true. When he looks in
the mirror he sees Sam Tyler’s face, a face that he’s seen all of his life.
Gene swears his face is Sam Williams’ though. He squints up at the Test Card
Girl, and maybe she’s the least of his problems at the moment. “I’m Sam Tyler,” he says. “Tyler. I
have nothing in common with Sam Williams.” Except his body. “Are you sure, Sam?” she asks, with a small smile.
He frowns and tries to think about it, and maybe he
really shouldn’t listen to her. Aren’t you supposed to never trust the
voices in your head, anyway? Actually, he’s pretty sure hearing voices in the
first place isn’t a good sign at all. And suddenly it comes to him. St. Christopher is the patron saint of fucking travellers.
“The bloody medal,” he whispers, but he’s alone
now, she’s back in the TV. * * * Sam raps on the door softly, before entering and
closing it behind him. Gene doesn’t look up from whatever he’s reading. “Sit,”
he says. Sam shakes his head and leans back against the door.
“No, thanks, I’d rather stand.” The Guv looks up at him and for a moment Sam fears
the worst. “You’re stayin’,” he says, and Sam lets out the breath he’s
been holding for what feels like an eternity. He smiles openly. “Gene, thank you…I-” he
laughs. “This is great news!” “Something workin’ our way for once, eh?” Gene
says, standing up from behind his desk. “You know what I’m thinkin’?” he
asks, coming to get his coat from the rack. Sam chuckles and pretends to think about it. “Pub?
My round?” Gene looks down at him with his eyes wide in wonder.
“Bloody Nora, Gladys!” he exclaims, “you can read minds, now?” “It’s all part of the special training we get in
Hyde.” Gene’s face falls and he frowns. “Really?” “Just joking!” he snorts, smacking his shoulder,
lightly. “Right,” Gene sniffs. “I knew that.” Sam’s grin widens, but abruptly falls off when Gene
reaches around him to get to the knob, effectively trapping him against the door.
He swallows, and face to face like this it’s too much of a temptation, and
Gene’s eyes darting down to his mouth, his own fixed on Gene’s lower lip-
Right. He looks sideways and gently pushes Gene away.
“Guv…” he starts. Gene takes a step back, clearing his throat.
“Right, um…” And it’s been barely two days, how are they
supposed to last? Without counting the fact the last time they had sex was…well,
before he died. And to think there was time when he thought a relationship –
any kind of relationship, even friendship – with Gene would be ridiculous.
Actually, it is pretty ridiculous, because a gay, clandestine affair with
your superior officer, who might or might not be a hallucination, in 1973? Absolutely
ridiculous, even leaving out the zombie thing. But as Gene’s remarked multiple
times, the sex is great. Gene’s looking pointedly at him, and the silence in
the small office grows progressively longer and more awkward, until Sam realizes
that he is, in fact, blocking the way out. Instead of stepping away from the
door, he turns and opens it, walking into the squad room, feeling like a man
reborn. He knows he’s grinning like a moron, but he can’t
stop, not even when he meets Malcolm’s frowning gaze. “Raymondo!” Gene exclaims, slapping him on the
back. “Aren’t you glad we get to keep Gladys?” Ray munches thoughtfully on his gum, then glares
darkly at Sam. “Can’t we get a last minute trade?” He just rolls his eyes and shakes his head with a
small smirk, because it’s not like he expects warm and fuzzy from Ray, but
this is normal, at least. Chris grins and bumps Ray’s shoulder. “Well, at
least the Boss is a United fan.” Next to him, Gene frowns and pursues his lips. “On
second thoughts…” Sam just snorts and shares a smile with Annie.
“You’re staying, then?” she asks. He shrugs, “I guess.” “You look glad,” she says. “All smiling. It’s
not so bad, see?” He frowns at her, confused. “What?” “Here,” she replies. “Even if it’s not
home.” He’s still blinking at her when Malcolm shoulders
past him. “Must you have everything?” he hisses into his ear, but before Sam
can reply he’s gone. “I’ve got a family, Sam!” He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind but
it’s useless, and Sam is back once again to struggling, always one step
behind. * * * Sam moves aside to dodge one of Gene’s arms as he
tries to put on his coat. “I think- Ow,” he says, as the hand smacks his
nose on the way back. “I think Malcolm doesn’t like me anymore.” “Poor Gladys,” Gene snorts. “Nobody wants to
play with ya. You’ll die an old spinster.” Sam sinks lower in the car seat, his arms crossed
over his chest. “This is serious,” he pouts. “He doesn’t like me.” “What the hell do I care?” Gene grumbles, then
stops and turns to look at Sam. “Why’re you tellin’ me this, Tyler? This
is ever girlier than yer usual girly, poncey behaviour.” He shrugs and falls against the car door, hitting his
cheek on the glass. “He used to like me. Now he doesn’t,” he says. “‘S
strange. That’s all.” Gene curses, and Sam has once again to dodge a
flailing arm. “We talked about how very The Sweeney you all
are,” he says. “I thought we were friends.” “What’s the Met’s gotta do with us?” Gene
snorts and smacks him again on the nose. “No, it’s- That’s a show.” He pushes
the hand away. “Oi! What’s with the arms?!” he exclaims. Gene grunts and falls back against the seat. “This
soddin’ thing doesn’t work.” “It’s a bloody coat, Guv,” he says to the to
the roof. “It doesn’t ‘not work’!” “Well, this doesn’t!”
Sam turns to get a good look and snorts. “You’ve got it arse about face, Guv,”
he giggles. “You’re pissed!” This time the slap that hits him in the face is
voluntary. “Look who’s talking, Gladys!” Gene exclaims, “you’ve been
nursin’ yer broken heart all evenin’.” “You’re je-alous!” he sing-songs and giggles
again. “And you’re pis-sed!” Finally Gene’s managed
to put on his coat the right way, and he’s now patting himself down,
presumably in search of a cigarette. “I ain’t jealous, anyway.” “You don’t need to be. He looks like Vinnie Jones,”
Sam says, as if that explains everything. Something hits him in the chest and
falls down on the seat, between his legs. He frowns and picks it up. “Lube?
Where did this come from, Guv?” “Me pocket,” Gene says, and suddenly he’s all
plastered up against his side, a hand groping between Sam’s legs and his mouth
chewing and nibbling on his neck. “Uh, Guv…weren’t we supposed to stop this?”
he wonders aloud, but he spreads his legs, making more room for Gene’s
questing hand. “Shut up, Tyler.” “We’re in public…” Sam tries again, but tilts
his head so that Gene has better access to his neck. Gene raises his head and glares at him. “Are we
gonna shag or not?” “Guv…We-” the hand between his legs squeezes
and really, it’s not like he has any objections left. He turns his head, opening his mouth to meet Gene’s,
one of his hands sliding down his chest to his fly, the other circling around
his back, under the jacket. Despite his inebriated state, Gene’s fingers deftly
undo his fly and find their way inside his pants, gripping his erection and
moving up and down in long, hard strokes. Sam moans in the kiss, and he has to
stop trying to reciprocate, and just hold onto Gene’s shoulders to keep
himself grounded, panting and gasping against his open mouth. The speed of the
strokes increases, they become more erratic, and in the attempt to grant Gene
more room, he raises one knee and bangs it against the dashboard, but he
doesn’t care at all because he’s coming, with a desperate sob, he’s coming.
Gene carries on his petting for a few moments, then
his hand strokes along the inside of his thigh, coming to rest near his knee and
squeezing gently, and Sam’s going to have come stains on his favourite pair of
trousers. He’s going to regret that in the morning, but right now he couldn’t
give a damn. Gene hums into his mouth, but he doesn’t stop his
lazy kissing, open-mouthed and obscene, and if he could see himself now he’d
probably die of embarrassment at the cheesy pornographic picture they represent,
but he’s pissed and he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this…free.
Of boundaries, of convention, of rules. Or maybe his brain, clouded by the fumes
of alcohol, still hasn’t fully registered the implications that having sex in
a semi-public place entails. Gene pushes against his shoulders, creating some
space between them. He tries to go back to him, though, to his mouth, back to
kissing and he protests weakly when Gene pushes more firmly. “You alright, Gladys?” Gene asks, letting him go,
and Sam sags against him, mumbling against his neck. “You’re not falling
asleep, are ya?” he asks, “because I could do with a hand ‘ere,” he says,
taking Sam’s wrist and guiding his hand down, to bring it in contact with his
erection, still trapped under two layers of clothing. Sam works on the fly clumsily, and after three tries
he finally manages to sneak a hand inside. He slides down Gene’s chest, ending
up with his face smashed up against his belly before he’s able to continue his
downward journey. He finds himself in an awkward position, half lying, half
curling over the two seats, the gear shift painfully thrust against his ribs.
The hand at the back of his head presses down, though, and he buries his face
against Gene’s crotch, nuzzling and licking, and finally opening his mouth to
take him in. “Ah, bloody hell, Sammy,” Gene’s voice hitches
and his hands stoke down his shoulders, and guide Sam’s head up and down, up
and down. He shifts to adjust the angle, but he bumps in the
wheel a few times and he makes to raise his head, but Gene’s hands push down,
and down he goes, stretching as wide as he can to accommodate him, following his
thrusts, until he can’t breathe properly any more and has to come up for air. A lick and a suck and Gene’s coming, as well, on
his trousers, on Sam’s face, on his shirt. He coughs a little and rubs his
cheek against Gene’s belly, because tomorrow he’ll wake up with a nasty
hangover and only blurry memories, but damned if he’ll be the only one waking
up with come stains on his clothes. He seems to recall there’s an actually valid reason
they shouldn’t be doing this. “The whole no sex thing?” he says, with the tone
of somebody who’s reached a profound conclusion. “Not working.” “No shit.” He lays there, then, Gene’s thighs as a pillow.
“I’m sleepy,” he mumbles. He’s lifted up the back of his collar, and he lands
more or less upright in the passenger seat. Hands are at his crotch again, and
he squints down at them, interested, wondering what they’re trying to do. Oh, tucking him in, then. The hands leave him far too soon, and Sam is left
without support, feeling confused and light-headed. And uncomfortable. He slips
a hand under his arse, between his thigh and the car seat, and retrieves the
lube he’s sat on. He frowns at it, then turns to Gene who’s managed to do up
his trousers and is now looking for the keys. “We didn’t get around to use this, after all,”
he says. Gene considers it, then shrugs. “Would ruin the
upholstery if I shagged you in ‘ere.” Sam rolls his eyes and tosses him the lube. “I
don’t know if I should be more worried that you’d gladly bend me over and
have your wicked way with me in a public place, or that the car won and you
wouldn’t,” he says, tilting sideways, his forehead leaning on the glass of
the side window. Gene gives him a long look. “You’re starting to
get sappy, Tyler,” he tells him. “I’m taking you home.” Sam nods and yawns, not really having the strength
for a sarcastic comeback or any other kind of comment. “Don’t sleep in the car this time, you crazy
lunatic,” Gene tells him, as Sam gets out of the car, once they’re outside
his flat. “Don’t have the car tonight, Guv,” he replies,
scratching the back of his head and blinking at him, confused. “Then don’t sleep in the doorway!” Gene shouts
at him, revving the engine and screeching away. And really, it’s very sweet that the Guv is so
concerned about him. * * * Sam stumbles up the stairs, losing his balance and
crashing into the wall a few times. He’s managed to fish out the keys from his
pocket, he’s already thinking about his bed and right now, exhausted as he is,
it looks like the Promised Land. When he reaches his hallway, though, he freezes in
his tracks. “Hey, Sam,” Malcolm greets him, standing up from the
floor where he’s been sitting, his back against Sam’s door. He blinks at him. “Hi,” he replies, confused at
the turn of events. “I thought you’d gone home,” he continues, recalling
Malcolm’s rather brief presence at The Railway Arms, just a few hours earlier.
Not that he blames him, since it was a ‘Tyler gets to stay and you don’t’
party, or at least those being the overtones. Malcolm shrugs. “I decided I should thank you
properly,” he says, showing him the bottle of wine in his hand. Sam frowns at it, then looks up at Malcolm. “Why? I
get to stay in your place,” he says, and Malcolm’s jaw clenches. He might
not be the most sensitive person when drunk. “Well, yeah. But it was inevitable, really,”
Malcolm says. “I was the new bloke, of course they were gonna choose you from
the start.” He frowns, not very convinced of that, and there’s
something tickling at the back of his mind, because if Malcolm is really working
with Morgan, there’s no way he’d be so calmly resigned and bring wine to
toast to Sam’s staying in A Division. “You’re not gonna let us inside?” Malcolm asks,
amused and only then Sam notices he’s been standing in front of the door for
quite some time now, keys suspended a few inches from the lock. He shakes his head and opens the door, stepping aside
to let Malcolm in. “That’s 1973 interior design for you,” he says,
trying for some humour when Malcolm sweeps his gaze around the room. “I really,
really miss my old flat.” “I know,” Malcolm nods. “I’ve already been
here.” “Right, when-” Sam clears his voice and closes
the door tossing the keys on the table and going to the sink to get two glasses.
“You fancy some wine?” “You fancy some-” he frowns, that’s not right.
Malcolm’s brought the wine, Sam hasn’t got any. “You wanna open that
bottle?” he asks instead. “Sure,” Malcolm replies, going to retrieve the
corkscrew. He watches, confused, as he moves around the room, his movements sure,
without hesitation. “You know where I keep the corkscrew,” he says,
and it’s more of a statement than a question. “I told you,” Malcolm replies, uncorking the
bottle with a pop. “I’ve already been here. I took you home, Sunday.
You still don’t remember?” “No, but I read your statement,” he says, trying
to recall if Malcolm ever hinted to them drinking from the bottle of wine found
empty at the scene. “I have a family, Sam.” But he already
knows that. He shakes his head to clear it from the voices, and
holds out the glasses from Malcolm to fill. “What is it?” Malcolm asks, putting the bottle
down and taking his glass from his hand. “It’s just-” he starts, then stops, trying to
find the right words. “I’ve read all the reports, but I’d like to hear
your version of the facts from, you know, you.” Malcolm nods thoughtfully as he takes a sip of the
wine, then he meets his eyes. “You sure you don’t remember anything?” Sam shakes his head no, because if that’s not
entirely the truth, it’s not a lie either. There’re voices in his head,
Malcolm saying things, but he can’t really put them in a way that makes sense.
“We came here,” Malcolm says. “We drank some
wine. Very much like now, actually.” Sam nods and finishes his wine, abandoning the glass
on the tabletop to look around the room with a wide, encompassing gaze. His eyes
linger on the phone. “Gene told me I called The Railway Arms twice,” he says.
“To talk to him about something important.” Malcolm nods and leaves the glass on the table, as
well. “You shouldn’t have done that.” “They found the phone cable unplugged when they
investigated the flat,” and it still is, Sam hasn’t had the time to fix it.
“As if somebody had torn it from the wall,” he concludes, looking at Malcolm,
carefully. “As if somebody didn’t want you to talk to him,”
Malcolm nods, as if agreeing with him. He takes a step forward, Sam taking one
backward to keep distance between them. “Gene told me I’d been trying to speak with him
all of Sunday, actually,” he goes on. “Why did I need so badly to speak with
him?” “I have a family, Sam. I want to go back. I need
to go back!” Malcolm takes another step forward and Sam another
one backward, but his flat is very far from being roomy, it’s barely habitable
actually, and the space to go on with this sort of dance is bound to end pretty
soon. “I’ve been there, Malcolm,” Sam says evenly,
calmly, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. “And I’ve probably told you
already, that’s not the answer.” Malcolm advances on him again and Sam’s shoulders
touch the wall, and he knows now, even though he still can’t remember
everything, he knows why he needed so desperately to speak with Gene, to warn
him, but it’s not going to be of much use if he dies again, is it? Assuming he
won’t wake up if he does. But no, the doctors in his head – in 2006
– said another crisis would be fatal. And he has to suppress the urge to laugh,
because of course dying would be fatal! “I’ve got a family in 2006, Sam!” Malcolm
shouts, and this time it’s not a voice in his head, it’s not fractured
memories. This time it’s him, drunk and tired against a motivated man two
times his size. “I’ve got a wife and a daughter!” “Destroying Gene is not the answer!” Sam shouts
back at him. “I told you! I’ve tried! There’s got to be another
way!” “I don’t care!”
Malcolm hisses. “This is not real! They are not real! You’re probably
not real, either!” he says, tapping his fingers against his temples and Sam
watches, fascinated and horrified, because this could easily be him, this has
been him. This is still him, probably. Malcolm seems to be taken
aback. “What? No.” “Well, I do!”
he says. “Moi et toi, nous sommes fous. Surtout toi! Now do you honestly believe
your mind could have made that up?” Malcolm narrows his eyes
at him. “For all I know my mind could be just playing tricks on me.” He rolls his eyes. “So now the French are just
figments of your imagination?” he snorts, but when Malcolm snarls at him he
raises his hands. “Maybe, maybe this isn’t real, yeah. But what if it is!”
he counters. “Are you willing to take that chance? To ruin their lives, to
kill somebody?” Malcolm snorts. “Maybe you didn’t want it bad
enough,” he says. “Maybe-” but he's cut off when Sam launches forward,
sinking his elbow into his stomach with all of his strength. Malcolm crumples down with a gasp, and Sam runs for
the door, because there’s no way he’s staying to engage into a fight against
a rugby player that looks like Vinnie Jones and is probably just as mean. His
escape is short-lived, though, and just as he opens the door, only a couple
inches really, a hand from behind slams it closed again. “Not so fast, Tyler,” Malcolm hisses into his ear,
then he grabs the back of his head and bashes it against the wood several times,
until there are splinters biting in his cheek and his vision becomes blurry, the
room swimming before his eyes. Sam tries to hit him with anything that he’s able
to move, but in his confused – and probably concussed – state he’s clumsy
and slow, and the only kick that manages to hit home serves only to piss Malcolm
off even more. A shower of blows rains against his kidneys, and he slumps to the
ground, breathless and gasping. Nothing happens for several moments and he’s about
to stand back up and try to defend himself, when something slips around his neck
and pulls, making him fall back, down on the floor. The band of leather –
Malcolm’s belt, presumably – tightens and Sam can’t breathe any more, and
he’s kicking the air, and his fingers tug and pull to create some space
between the belt and his neck, but they keep slipping with no hold. His vision is becoming grey at the edges and he wants
to shout, but the only sounds that come out of his mouth are only strangled
gasps. And Sam knows this is it, and while he certainly doesn’t want to
die, a part of him is observing the whole situation with a sort of clinical
detachment, wondering what will happen now, if he’s going to wake up again in
the morgue in a few days, or maybe another thirty-three years in the past, or- Everything becomes black for a moment, then long,
fast fingers fumble with the belt at his neck, and suddenly the constriction is
gone and he can breathe again, deep lungful of precious air, and he’s coughing
and hacking and almost throws up, his throat scratchy and rough as is he’s
swallowed sandpaper. “Easy there, Sammy,” a voice soothes him, and
he’s lifted by the shoulders, his head guided to rest against a wide chest,
and he would return the almost-embrace if his arms had enough strength in them
and didn’t feel like lead. “Gene,” he croaks against the coat, and the heart
under his ear, under the shirt, is beating fast. “Gene,” he repeats. “Bloody hell, Sam,” Gene whispers, and he sounds
stunned – no, shocked. “Malcolm?” he asks. “Bastard managed to get away,” Gene says, and
when Sam turns to look, the door’s practically imploded, the too-familiar
sight eliciting a weak smile on his lips. And he must have lost consciousness
for more than a moment or two not to notice that. “Why didn’t you go after him?” he asks, quietly,
and he can barely hear himself. The hands keeping him upright are trembling slightly,
and there’s a hitch in Gene’s voice when he speaks. “I couldn’t- Jesus,
Sam, you looked dead.” He nods against Gene’s chest, and coughs again,
lightly. A hand lifts his head, thumb stroking his cheek, and Sam opens his
mouth to the kiss. “Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he whispers
when they come apart, “but why are you here? I thought you’d be home by now.”
Gene retrieves something from his pocket and shows
him his hand, holding the lube. “I figured we could use this, after all.” Sam snorts and shakes his head. “I know I’m
probably going to regret this,” he says, almost to himself, “but next time I
bring up your endless libido as a criticism? Feel free to kick me.” Gene smirks down at him. “Oh, trust me, I will.”
* * * Gene’s office door is closed, the blinds drawn, but
it’s not like Sam or the other men – and woman – in the squad room don’t
know what’s going on inside. People on the other side of Manchester probably
have a good idea, as well. He sighs and leans his head back, looking up at the
ceiling and wondering if the Guv’s shouting could maybe bring the plaster
down. Behind the closed doors something hits something
else, and he hopes it’s only Gene’s palm against a random piece of furniture,
and not Morgan being slammed against a wall. He scratches at his still aching neck, now decorated
with a purple, regular-shaped bruise where the belt tightened against him. Gene
told him he looked healthier when he was dead, and it’s probably true. Next to
him, both Annie and Chris give him worried glances. “Are you all right Sam?” Annie asks, not for the
first time. He nods but he can still feel their eyes fixed on him.
And Ray’s glare, as well. He’s not really sure if he’s more jealous
because he’s getting all of Annie’s attention, or Chris’. Frankly, he
doesn’t care. Finally the door opens, and they all straighten up as
Morgan comes out, a frown on his face, but otherwise appearing normal to them.
He takes in the squad room, and his eyes linger on Sam for a moment, the
disapproving frown deepening, before he nods and leaves, Ray making rather rude
gestures at his back. “Knock it off, Ray!” Gene orders, leaning against
the door-frame, then he looks at him. “A word, Tyler.” Sam hangs his head and comes away from the desk,
following Gene inside the office. He sighs and shakes his head, the others have
heard rumours and he thinks it’s better to tell the truth at this point,
rather than let their minds make up wild stories about this. And it’s Gene
that’s always insisting they’re a team, anyway. “We have to tell them,” he says. “You can’t
go on with all this secret business every time you need to tell me something.
They’re going to notice something’s off, sooner or later.” Gene raises his eyebrows at him. “Alright, then.
What do you want me to tell them first? That you were dead? That you come from
the future? That you’re some other bloke?” He glares at him and sits down on the couch. “Be
that way, then,” he says. “What did Morgan say? We heard only your side of
the conversation.” Gene sits on his chair, leaning back and lying his
feet on the desk. He puts a cigarette into his mouth and lights it, dragging the
wait for a while. “Nothing,” he replies, at last. He frowns. “What do you men ‘nothing’? He must
have said something.” “Oh, he talked a whole lot,” the Guv nods. “But
he didn’t say much.” He narrows his eyes at him, suspicious. “You
didn’t somehow let it slip that we know about the undercover job, did you?” Gene gives him a long look. “You think I’m a
complete twat, don’t you Tyler?” “No, but-” “Then don’t say things like that!” Gene yells.
He clears his voice, then continues, “he seemed surprised when I told him
about Parkman, though.” Sam nods, because that’s been all Malcolm, he never
thought Morgan would have anything to do with it. He’s trying to bring Gene
down, but through procedures and with a genuine investigation to back him up,
he’d never resort to murder to get rid of a possible threat. Except, of course,
the little question of the blackmail. And it’s not the first time that he
wonders why he chose this side, Gene’s side. Morgan is more along the lines of
what he believes in as a copper, and he should probably help him, and he wants
to sometimes, because there’s a limit to his patience and every sarcastic
comment from Ray, and every bit of lunch that ends up on the evidence, and every
punch thrown in Lost and Found brings him closer to that limit. He rubs his face, “Malcolm tried to- well, he killed
me because I found out he wanted to bring you down.” “He did?” “He still does,” Sam replies. “Why he’s got
it against me, though, I don’t know. He’s meant to stop you, after
all.” “Must be that Kermit thing you told me about.” “What?” Sam frowns at the non-sequitur, then he
shakes his head, grinning. “Oh, you mean Karma.” “Yeah, whatever,” Gene shrugs. “He wants to go back home,” he continues. “I
told him that wasn’t going to work.” “You sound so sure.” “Because I’ve tried it,” he replies. “When
Ray screwed up, and it didn’t work.” The Guv is silent for a long time, and Sam listens to
every drag he takes on the cigarette. “You really want to go home, don’t you?”
he asks quietly, after a while. “I don’t know where is home any more,” he says.
“But Malcolm wants it badly, and I think we’ve seen that nothing will stop
him,” he snorts and shakes his head. “I can’t believe we had him under our
noses all the time. It’s a textbook case. The last person to see the victim is
the murderer.” “Yeah, and he was supposed to be me ‘fresh pair
of eyes’,” Gene replies. “Thinking outside the box, me arse.” “What?” “If I get my hands on him-” Gene starts,
clenching his fist, as if to demonstrate what exactly he’s got in mind. “He’ll get a fair trial,” he interrupts. “For
assault and attempted murder of a police officer.” The Guv rolls his eyes with a disgusted face. “Of
course he will, Tyler.” “And then we’ll uncover Morgan’s operation,”
Sam continues. “It’s not like he’s doing something illegal, but it’ll
surely undermine the trust every police officer has in him.” Gene gives him a long, appreciating look. “I like
the way you think, Tyler.” “Now we only have to find him.” Gene wiggles his eyebrows and smirks at him. “Trust
the Gene Genie.” “You know that the title of that song comes from a
French, homosexual author, right?” he asks, grinning. “What?” Gene exclaims, and Sam wonders if
he’s more miffed about the gay or the French part. * * * “No, Gene,” he says. “And that’s final.” “Do I look like I care what you’re thinking,
Gladys?” Gene replies, taking off his coat and tossing it over the back of the
chair. “No, you usually don’t,” he concedes. “But
I’m a grown man, I don’t need to a bloody babysitter,” he exclaims,
letting the plates fall on the table with an angry gesture. Gene arranges his in front of him, and glances at him,
sceptically. “Apparently you do,” he says, “or we wouldn’t be here in
the first place.” “My point is,” Sam continues, carrying the pan to
the table, “I don’t need protection now that we know it’s Malcolm.” “Oh, sure,” Gene nods. “You’re just gonna
kick him into submission with your secret fighting skills, then,” he snorts.
“It went so well last time.” Sam slaps Gene’s helping down into his plate,
glaring at him. It’s not like he needs the reminder, anyway, his right eye’s
just started to reopen and his back and neck are still black and blue. A hand sneaks around him and pinches him on the bum,
and Sam yelps and almost drops their dinner. “You’d make a fine waitress,
Gladys.” Gene smirks at him. He glares. “From now on you can fetch your bloody
food by yourself, Hunt,” he hisses. “And stop picturing me in a French
maid outfit!” Gene blinks at him, surprised, then a sneer widens on
his lips. “A French maid?” he repeats. “You wanna tell me something, Tyler?”
Sam empties the contents of the pan into his plate,
then goes and drops it in the sink. “I said stop it, I refuse to take part in
your dirty, stupid fantasies.” “I thought this was supposed to be your
fantasy, Sammy-boy,” Gene smirks. “And you were the one to suggest the
French maid in the first place. Mon cherie.” Sam glares at him and slams his fist down on the
table. “Shut up!” he exclaims. “You’re trying to change the subject.” “Oh, yeah?” Gene asks around his mouthful, and
Sam has to look away to avoid seeing all the food going around in his mouth.
“Then let’s go back to the subject. You don’t want protection. I don’t
care what you want. I’m the Guv, I win. End,” he concludes with a tight
smile, before going back to his dinner. So Gene’s decided to be like that, well Sam can
play rough as well. “What about your wife, Guv?” he asks. “These days
you’re always eating out, you come home late, if you come at all, you-” Gene slams his hand down, and the table creaks and
shakes, not used to the abuse like the one in Lost and Found is. “That’s
none of your business, Tyler,” he grinds out. “And you can stop right there,
because I’m not gonna change my mind. It’s bad enough you’re playing bait.”
“Bait?” Sam snorts. “I’m holed up in
my crappy flat waiting for you lot to find Malcolm and I’m bait?” he shakes
his head in disbelief. “Leave me your gun and go out the door, we’ll have
better chances that way.” Gene shoots a long, serious look at him, making Sam
squirm under the scrutiny until he has to lower his eyes. “We look after our
own,” Gene says quietly, after a moment. “Why is it so hard for you to
understand?” He rubs his face, pressing his fingers against his
eyes. He shakes his head. “It’s not-” he takes a deep breath. “It drives
me crazy, this… sitting down and waiting for something to happen.” Gene nods thoughtfully, then he raises an eyebrow at
him. “I know a nice pastime.” He rolls his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder how you
manage to walk around, because the way you talk, you must have a permanent
stiffy.” He yelps and drops his fork when Gene’s foot connects with his shin.
“Ow!” he exclaims incredulously. “You kicked me!” Gene shrugs and give him an innocent smile. “You
told me to.” Sam groans, rubbing his aching shin, and he really
should have known he would regret that. “I’ve got no hope to get rid of you,
do I?” he finally says, resigned. “Nope.” Gene replies. “But look at it this way,
now you can have all shagging you want, whenever you want.” “You’ve got that wrong,” he says. “The one
permanently randy is you, Guv.” But then he thinks about have Gene all for himself,
24/7, in his flat, eager and willing to fuck whenever they want. He still isn’t
the one obsessed with sex, but he has to admit the idea’s starting to appeal
to him. And maybe you can’t spend all your life fucking, confined in a dingy
flat and ignoring the world outside, but you certainly can pass a couple of days
like that. Like a holiday. In a dingy flat. With guns and people who want to
kill you. “I see you’re starting to warm up to the idea,”
Gene says, and the leer he’s sporting tells Sam he most definitely meant the
pun. “I might be…persuaded into seeing the positive
side of this thing,” he admits with a small nod. “After all I’m a very
open-minded person.” “I think you’ll find I can be very persuasive,”
Gene replies and Sam ducks his head, grinning. They continue the meal in silence until Gene’s head
shoots up and he tenses. “It just occurred to me,” he says, frowning. “What?” Sam asks. “It’s 1973.” “Well,” he blinks at him. “And I thought I was
the one with the time problems.” “No, I mean-” Gene shakes his head. “I’ve met
you, little you. And you’re four.” He puts down the fork. “I know, it messes with your
head,” he nods. “I remember when I-” “It messes with me head alright!” Gene snorts.
“I’m shagging a four year old kid!” Sam gapes at him. “Jesus!” he exclaims,
throwing his napkin at Gene. “Are you fucking insane?” he shudders.
“I don’t know how old Williams is, but I’m thirty-seven, Guv! You’re not
a bloody paedophile!” he drops his head down in his arms and thumps it against
the tabletop a couple of times. “And thank you for putting that image into my
head, by the way.” “Thirty-seven?” Gene repeats, frowning.
“Wouldn’t have thought you were that old.” “I am not old!” * * * Two days later he thinks this babysitting thing might
have been the best idea Gene’s ever come up with. If not for the fact that Gene and his gun have gone
out to buy some cigarettes, of course. The Guv told him that Ray was on the way,
and what’s going to happen in ten minutes, anyway? Right. With his luck,
Ray’s probably down the pub having a pint or two with his mates while Sam is
bleeding to death in his goddamn bathroom. Grimacing, he applies more pressure on the knife
wound right below his ribcage and tries to think of a plan. He looks around the
small room, but there’s nothing that could serve as a weapon in there, and of
course his gun is in his jacket, hanging over the back of the chair. At least
Malcolm hasn’t found it, yet. The door shudders under another kick and Sam pushes
his back against it with all his strength, to offer some kind of support, his
feet firmly planted on the floor. But he has to come up with something very soon,
the wound in his side burns, and it’s not like the door is a wonder in terms
of sturdiness, anyway. “I waited three days for Hunt to leave, Sam!”
Malcolm shouts at him from the other side of the door. “And now you won’t
even come out and greet me properly?” Another blow shakes the frame and then, suddenly,
just next to the doorknob, the knife pushes through the wood, and for a moment
Sam finds himself staring at his widened eyes reflecting in the blood – his
blood – stained metal of the blade, a few inches from his face. This is
bringing back all kind of disturbing flashbacks from The Shining. The knife retreats and is thrust in again, this time
slightly higher, and it’s time Sam gets a move on. He stands up, pressing his
arm against his belly, trying to staunch the flow as best as he can, and almost
slips in the blood pooling at his feet. He stumbles, light-headed, and grabs the
shower curtain, tugging at it. It takes two more pulls before it comes away
completely, just in time as the door bursts open under one final, vicious kick. Sam tosses the curtain at Malcolm, very much like a
net, and he pushes past him, taking advantage of his momentary confusion. His side is burning like fire now, the loss of blood
making him dizzy, and pressing down on the wound makes him queasy. He almost
slips again, but he’s managed to reach his jacket, his fingers closing around
the butt of his gun. He turns round, but before he can take aim Malcolm barrels
into him, sending both of them to the ground. Malcolm falls on top of him, knocking the wind out of
him, and he knows he has to try and shoot him, because in a few moments the
advantage of having the gun won’t mean nothing, and Malcolm’s superior
strength and physical condition will prevail. His wrist is knocked sideways by a shoulder, though,
and the two shots miss their target, hitting the wall instead. “Why the hell are you obsessed with killing me, you
fucking bastard!” he yells, struggling against him. Malcolm doesn’t answer, though, and punches him
right on the wound. Pain explodes, blinding and absolute, and he screams in
agony. “Third time’s the charm,” Malcolm says, raising the knife, and Sam
can barely see him, his vision swimming in and out of focus. A single sound cuts through the buzzing in his ears,
a gunshot, and above him Malcolm recoils back, a stunned expression on his face,
as a red stain starts to blossom on his pale shirt. He gasps only once and falls
sideways, half on, half off Sam. “You all right, Boss?” a voice asks. “Ray,” Sam gasps as Malcolm’s weight is taken
off him. “I could kiss you right now.” There’s a sharp intake of breath where Sam expected
a snide remark, though, and he frowns. “That bad, huh?” he asks, craning his
head down to check the state of his wound. And it’s bad indeed, now most of his shirt and his
trousers are dark with blood, without counting the pool slowly widening under
him. “I need an ambulance,” he says, coughing and letting his head fall back
again, against the hard floor. “No shit,” Ray snorts, taking out his radio.
“The Guv’s not gonna be happy.” “He shouldn’t have gone out for his damn smokes
in the first place,” Sam says, and it’s not like he’s one to carry a
grudge. “Bastard can’t last a bloody minute without pollutin’ his
fuckin’ lungs, can he?” he mumbles, his speech becoming slurred. Ray looks down at him with a strange expression on
his face, and it reminds Sam of the time when he was almost killed by
that bomb, like he doesn’t know what to do. “I need to keep pressure on the…” he trails off
and motions to the wound, but he’s so weak he can barely lift his arm. Ray kneels next to him and presses down on his wound,
only to lift his hands again, when Sam hisses through his clenched teeth. He
shakes his head. “N-no, it’s all right, just press down.” Ray applies more pressure. “All right?” he asks. Sam nods distractedly, his teeth chattering in the
suspended silence of the room. “I’m cold,” he says. Ray sneaks a hand around his shoulders and props him
up against his thigh. “Don’t die on me, Boss,” he says after a moment. “Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction, Sergeant,”
he whispers, but he closes his eyes. * * * Sam wakes up slowly, and he knows they must have
given him a strong dose of painkillers, because all the sensations reach him as
if through a filter, and everything around him is reduced to a pleasant buzz.
He’s in a hospital room, and no one is in here except him. But there’re some
magazines of dubious morality somebody’s left lying on the bedside table,
together with a pot of flowers and some ‘get well soon’ cards. And a very
familiar coat is folded against the back of the chair drawn up next to the bed. He smiles weakly as he imagines Gene sitting there
and whiling away the time reading porn magazines, his feet propped up on the
mattress, lazily smoking and taking the odd sip from one of his hip flasks. He feels exhausted, though, and he’s about to go
back to sleep, when he hears footsteps approaching from the corridor. It’s not Gene, though. “Hi, Sam, welcome back.”
“DCI Morgan,” he greets, politely. “I didn’t
really expect you here.” “You were waiting for a different sort of DCI,
perhaps.” Morgan says, casting a glance to Gene’s abandoned coat. “I thought you’d gone back to Hyde,” he replies,
not really denying. “I wanted to be present during Malcolm’s
questioning,” Morgan says, then he sighs and shakes his head with a forlorn
face. “I never had the chance, the way things turned out.” “Yeah, well…” he trails off, because what can
you say in situations like this? ‘Sorry my Sergeant shot your Inspector, but
he was trying to kill me’ doesn’t sound right. “You must understand Sam,” Morgan tells him,
earnestly, looking straight at him, “that if I had known this was going to
happen, I would have never-” He shakes his head. “It’s all right, Sir. You
can’t really predict those things.” Like being crazy. Like going back in time. “I suppose so,” Morgan nods thoughtfully, then he
gestures to the empty chair. “May I?” Morgan gives him a long look. “I don’t know, Sam.
Why don’t you tell me?” Sam takes a deep breath, and even with the screen of
painkillers he feels the stitches in his side tugging, with a vague inkling of
pain underneath. “I’m not gonna help you,” he says, having reached that
decision. “If that’s what you’re asking.” Morgan stares at him as if he’s been slapped, then
he sighs and shakes his head. “Sam, Sam, Sam,” he says, softly, as if he
were scolding a small child. “But this is all my fault, after all, isn’t it?”
he whispers to himself. “I should have stopped you. You weren’t ready.” “Enough with that amnesia crap!” Sam exclaims,
slamming his fist down on the mattress. “I’ve already told you, this is your
own personal crusade against Gene!” “We have to start somewhere,” Morgan says. “Have you considered that the cure could be worse
than the disease?” he goes on. “Gene’s methods may be excessive sometimes,
but his heart and his mind are in the right place, and punishing him by taking
away everything he lives for isn’t fair! There’re worse people than him,
there’re worse coppers than him!” “You’re not being objective, Sam,” Morgan says,
kindly. “This was our dream, a new way of policing.” “But Gene’s learning!” he retorts. “He can
change, he’s already proved that!” “I’m sorry, Sam.” Morgan sighs, shaking his
head. “We can’t compromise.” Sam nods. “Then the price isn’t worth it,” he
says. “You were so close, Sam,” Morgan says,
regretfully. “You just needed another small effort and you’d have come
home.” He narrows his eyes at him. “What do you mean?” “You don’t belong here, Sam,” Morgan replies,
standing up. “What do you mean!” he repeats, louder. “This isn’t your place to be.” “I want to stay here!” he exclaims. “Do you
hear me?” “It doesn’t work like that,” Morgan shakes his
head. “Sam Tyler doesn’t exist, you made him up, a figment of your
imagination. For you to come home, he must leave.” “No!” But Morgan doesn’t seem to have heard him, he just
turns and walks away. When he opens the door light comes in from the corridor,
and it's too bright too be either natural or artificial, and everything becomes
white, too white, almost blinding. Sam shoots up in the bed, ignoring the pain in his side. “NO!” * * *
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