Life on Mars fic
Title: When The Hunter Becomes The Hunted
Author: acidpenguin46
Characters: Sam, Gene, The Test Card Girl, Vic Tyler, Ruth Tyler, Alex Drake, mentions of Phyllis, Chris and Ray.
Rating: NC-17 (Red Cortina)
Word Count: 6516
Warnings: Disturbing imagery, vague references to child pornography (in a criminal case), character death, ignores the existence of Frank Morgan and the MARS operation, gen (shock horror), mild blood-related gore, swearing and violence.
Summary: Sam Tyler isn't the only victim.
Disclaimer: None of it is mine, it all belongs to Kudos and Aunty Beeb.
Notes: If anyone reads this after those sorts of warnings I'll be very surprised, but Iit's one of those things that I had to write. Hell, variations of this idea have been in the back of my mind ever since I saw the finale for the first time, which was well over a year ago, so it's about time that it was actually written. I'm still not sure if I'm even going to post this over at lifein1973 , but at least it's out of my system now.Many thanks to the lovely wyvernwolf for looking over this for me, I greatly appreciate it! *hugs*
Any remaining mistakes are my own, and any comments/concrit are much appreciated.
***
When The Hunter Becomes The Hunted
“Daddy’s always let you down, don’t they?”
“Why are you still here Sam?”
“I’m your only friend.”
He startles awake, heart beating like a drum and sweat clinging to his skin, making the clothes he had fallen asleep in stick to his body. His eyes wander towards the television and sure enough she’s sitting there. Legs crossed, clown doll hanging down loosely from her grasp, obscuring the empty test card. “Hello Sam. Do you want to play?” She tilts her head to the side and giggles, watching him. He closes his eyes, willing her to leave. A loud knock rings throughout the flat and he opens his eyes. He doesn’t even need to look at the TV to know that she’s gone.
He lifts a hand, pushing his fingers through his hair as he untangles his legs from the mess of sheets before standing up to open the door. The sudden burst of light hurts his eyes, and through the dull haze of pain he hears his DCI order him to grab his coat. “Why?” He rubs his eyes with a loose fist, trying to wipe the sleep from them.
“A little girl’s gone missing.”
“Eleanor Harris. 9 years old. Parents are down at the station, poor sods.” He notices the slump in Gene’s shoulders, the too long drags on his cigarette, but chooses to ignore it.
“How long has she been missing for.”
“Since school ended. Both of them were working so they got a friend of theirs to pick her up, and according to him she weren’t there.”
“Questioned him, have you?”
“Could say that.” He drops the cigarette to the ground and stubs it out with his loafers. “Jesus, you look like shit Tyler.”
He grimaces. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Hey, and I bet her mum and dad slept like babies.” Sam opens the passenger side door and slips inside, turning his eyes away from the first rays of dawn to watch as Gene plonks down on the driver’s seat and reaches for the ignition, bringing the engine to life.
The car ride to the station was eerily silent, both of them lost in their own thoughts. He looks at Gene a couple of times, observing him. Detecting the bags under his eyes, the tense hold on the steering wheel. He always makes sure to turn away before Gene notices. He drums his fingers against his calves, all too aware that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and that it wouldn’t be hard to mistake him for the living dead. If it were any other situation he would smirk at the irony. They reach the station, and for once he’s almost glad to be out of the car.
She hadn’t come in over a week, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. It’s not as though she wasn’t still keeping him awake for most of the night. He’d stagger into his flat, 2 or 3 in the morning, and collapse on to his shitty excuse for a bed, not even noticing the springs poking through the threadbare mattress as he passed out for a brief nap before the next day would start much the same as the last one did. He hadn’t seen anything that wasn’t his flat, CID or the Arms, hadn’t even heard anything from “Hyde”, for the last four days. All of the courses had been run, every lead followed through to no end. The words haven’t been spoken aloud, but you could tell that no one expected a happy outcome. He tries to appear worried, he thinks he may be sometimes, but he can tell by the looks of disgust on Gene’s face, the way he’d take Ray if a new lead cropped up, that his façade wasn’t working.
He decides to skip the Arms tonight. It’s hardly any better than drinking alone in his flat; everyone just sat there, drinking in stony silence, waiting for the seemingly inevitable to float down the canal. He keeps the lights off and sits on the floor at the end of his bed, slowly drinking himself into a stupor. It’s not like it matters if he turns up to work with a hangover.
A piece of paper floats into his lap. He picks it up and looks at the picture scrawled across it. A mess of freshly painted trees, little droplets of red still dripping slowly from the bottom of the trunks. “Do you like finger-painting Sam? It’s ever so much fun.” He doesn’t look up, just keeps his eyes on the paper. He doesn’t want to see her.
“What did you paint this with Eleanor?”
“How do you know my name? You’re not supposed to know that.”
He ignores her question, and repeats his own. “What did you use to paint this?”
There was a hint of impatience in her voice, frustrated that he wouldn’t listen to her. “I used this.” He slowly lifts his gaze, trying to detachedly observe her scuffed shoes. The clown doll, covered with leaves and mud. The torn red dress. His gaze travels further still, until it lands upon where she was pointing. A gaping bullet hole in the middle of her forehead, the blood trickling down her nose where it was smudged, the purple bruise spreading from the torn apart flesh. He feels like he is going to be sick. “Do you like my picture?”
The light hurts his eyes as he opens his eyes, escaping his nightmare with a piece of crumpled paper clenched in his fist.
***
“She’s dead.” He tries to look like he’s surprised, but needn’t have bothered. Gene wasn’t even looking at him.
“Where was she found?”
“Down by the wharves.” He sounds defeated, almost as though he was dead himself. He looks up and down the hallway before raising his arm, hesitantly bringing a hand to rest on Gene’s shoulder.
“We’ll find the bastard Guv.” Gene looks down at him, a quick flash of pain quickly masked by anger and disgust.
“Piss off, Tyler.” He bats the hand away and stalks off.
She’s lying on the slab, her face drained of colour except for the entry wound in the middle of her forehead. The blood is gone, the shoes and dress lying in an evidence bag on the counter. He’s glad Gene handled her parents; he was having enough trouble examining her without the contents of last night’s drinking resurfacing. Oddly enough, it’s the most human he has ever seen her. He needs to get out.
“Give us a fag.”
“What, and pollute your precious lungs?” He rolls his eyes as Gene looks at him in annoyed confusion.
“I just - I need…” He trails off. He doesn’t even know what he needs right now. Gene looks at him searchingly, before reaching into the coat of his pocket.
“I s’spose you need a light as well?”
“No. I keep a lighter on me at all times to ward off the fucking leprechauns.” He watches as Gene reaches into another pocket and pulls out a lighter, passing it and a liberated cigarette over. He knows that Gene is watching but chooses to ignore him, instead focusing on the way the lighter sparks, the way the tobacco and paper start to burn. He inhales the smoke into his lungs and immediately starts to cough. He hasn’t done this in a while. Gene mutters the word “girl” under his breath, and he doesn’t dignify it with a response. They stand next to each other in silence instead, too close like always. Gene finishes first and lets the filter drop to the ground, stubbing it out under his loafer.
“We’ll find the bastard Sam.” He pulls the cigarette from between his lips, nodding as he exhales. Then he watches as Gene walks away.
***
The sound of a hand slapping against skin fills the Lost and Found room. “You know, you should’ve been locked up ages ago, a useless piece of shit like you.”
“I don’t know nothing, Hunt.” Another hit, clenched fist meeting bruised cheekbone.
“I don’t mean in regards to actual skills, Hartley, it’s obvious you don’t know anything as far as that’s concerned. But you do know something about this case, and I’m going to beat ten types of living shit out of you until you tell me what that is.”
“You’ll be here a long time then.” Sam rolls his eyes. For all of Hunt’s declarations of finding the bastard responsible, they weren’t getting very far. The usual snouts knew nothing and there was no evidence at the wharves, so really he should have expected the next course of action to be interrogating possible suspect’s ala Gene Hunt. He watched as Gene’s fist sinks into Hartley’s stomach, watches as he hunches over in pain. He didn’t need this. He walks across the room and steps outside.
“Have fun in there, did you?” As soon as Gene leaves Lost and Found he speaks, having not left the wall outside since he vacated the proceedings.
“You know, if I didn’t already know that it would be useless to try, I would’ve told you to shut your mouth Tyler.”
He turns around to face Gene. “We’re not going to get anyone beating up every man in Manchester who has ever had so much as a speeding ticket.”
“Oh yeah? And tell me, where’s your contribution to solving this case Gladys?” He steps in closer, right into his personal space, as his voice lowers dangerously and then, almost like the fight had left him as soon as it arrived; he turns and rests his back against the wall next to Sam, letting his head fall back against the concrete with a soft thunk. He looks up into his face as he draws a deep breath. “We have to find something. Little girls do not get murdered in my city without the tosser responsible being strung up by his balls.” He stops and turns his head to look down at Sam. “What was wrong with you before? Up until we found her it was like you weren’t even bothered about her being missing.”
He drops his head, trying to search his mind for a plausible answer. “I had some other stuff going on.”
“What, your time of the month, was it?” He rolls his eyes, but all the same couldn’t help but smirk. Gene seemed to consider that a good enough answer for now. “Come on my little deputy dog. We’ve got some scum to sort out.”
He sits down at his desk, grateful for the brief respite from the Lost and Found room. He notices the mess of folders, the loose pieces of paper, and starts to idly flick through them. The barely legible scribblings and coffee-stained paper are oddly comforting, but still offer nothing useful. Teachers saying she was fine before she left school that day. The drunken fisherman who found her body. The next door neighbour who offered Chris some tea and biscuits. The recently deserted house at the end of the street she lived on. He stops and reads it again, eyes stopping on the messy signature at the bottom of the sheet. Fucking Carling.
***
The glass shatters around his coat bound fist. “You know, I could have just picked the lock.” Gene shoots him a look of mystified disgust before reaching a hand through the broken glass to open the deadbolt, and he shuts his mouth. He waits until Gene enters and the follows, bending his knees to rifle through the pile of letters on the floor. He can’t have been gone for more than a week. “Frederick Veyron.” He looks up to see if Gene recognised the name, only to hear the sound of something breaking from the next room. He straightens and moves towards the sound. “I know you like smashing things Guv, but do you think it’s really necessary.”
“I know you like hearing the sound of your own voice as well Tyler, but you don’t hear me whinging about how it’s not really necessary.” He shuts his mouth against the retort trying to escape.
“Found anything?”
“Yeah. Judging by the looks of things he wasn’t here for all that long before she went missing either, barely looks like he unpacked.” He stops and looks around, taking note of the things that Mr. Veyron had bothered to unload. A new (well, new for 1973 anyway) camera. A projector. A set of gaudy silk sheets. His stomach sinks, and he moves over to the projector, stopping and searching until he found the on switch.
A greenish light flickers against the adjacent wall, and an amplified male voice fills the room. “Just sit still, there’s a good girl.” He sinks to his knees, the familiar voice making him feel sick.
“I don’t want to.” He hears Eleanor begin to sob, hears Gene walk towards him. “I want to go home.”
“It won’t take long sweetheart. Then you can play with the clown Uncle Freddy brought for you.” He’s not even watching anymore, he can’t.
“I’m going home.”
“Don’t you want to make Uncle Freddy happy? Uncle Frank is a nice man, he won’t hurt you.”
“I want to go home.” Small footsteps, stifled by carpet. The sound of the camera crashing to the floor. A muffled scream and a loud thump.
The projector flickers out and the room darkens. He feels Gene’s hand on his shoulder, trying to settle him down and stop him shaking. “Tyler.” He feels Gene shake him, but doesn’t respond. He repeats the word, only slightly louder, and he slowly turns his head to look up at him. “It’s all my fault.”
“Phyllis, get an APB out on Vic Tyler.” He hears the radio crackle, but doesn’t hear Phyllis respond. “Do I sound like I’m fucking joking? Get it done Phyllis.” He hears Gene throw the radio against the wall, but still doesn’t stand.
“For Christ’s sake Tyler, pull yourself together. You can have a good old cry later.”
He stares at the floor, barely comprehending the words coming out of Gene’s mouth. “I let him go.” He needs to hit something, or for something to hit him until he can’t feel anymore.
“And we’re all proud of you, but you need to keep it together.” He looks up at Gene, at the man he pulled a gun on to protect…
“I need a drink.”
Gene pulls a flask from his coat and hands it over. He takes it from him and unscrews the lid, letting the whiskey burn a path down his throat before instantly bringing it back up again.
“Fucking hell Sam, keep it together. We can still get the ponce.” He remains still, staring at the vomit slowly seeping into the carpet. Hands grab him by the shoulders and roughly pull him upright, making him stand before pushing him towards the door. Mobility slowly returns, and once he’s outside he can put one foot in front of the other by himself. He walks to the passenger side door of the Cortina and leans his head against it, the cool metal slowing the dizziness in his head. “We have to find him Gene.” He looks up and sees him around the other side of the car.
“Right now you need to get some sleep.”
”But we…”
“This isn’t up for discussion. Besides, what’s your grand plan? Drive along every street until we find him waving his arms about, saying ‘arrest me’? I’m taking you home Sam.”
He could argue back, he should at least try to make Gene see sense, but he can’t be bothered. He opens the passenger side door and slips inside the seat instead.
“Where are you?” Flashes of light, piercing through bright green leaves. He hears a scream, but it’s not the woman in the red dress. This one sounds younger, more high-pitched. More like the scream he heard at Vic Tyler’s place. He sees Vic with a gun in his hand, he watches as the bullet leaves the barrel. A piece of paper falls in front of him as the young Sam Tyler once more asks where his daddy is.
He wakes up, sweat clinging to his skin and his head pounding. Somehow he was in his own bed, and as he runs a hand through his hair in confusion, his fingers brush against something. Through the haze he reaches for it, hand fumbling until it curls around the crumpled wad of paper. “Was wondering when you would wake up.” He hides the recent discovery under his pillow, and squints until he can make out the form of Gene sitting on his armchair.
“What am I doing here?”
“You crashed out in the car, and I couldn’t wake you up when we got here. You might have to fix your door by the way.”
He groans and sits up, rubbing at his eyes with a clenched fist. “And what are you doing here?”
“Had to make sure you didn’t wake up and do anything stupid, didn’t I?” He watches as Gene stands up. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a piss.” He’s left alone, and pulls the wad of paper out from under his sheets. He can still see the blood red outline of some of the trees.
***
“What the hell are you playing at Tyler?”
He pulls his jacket over his arm as he looks up at Gene. “I know where he is.”
“Oh, really? Did a little fairy come and visit you during the night to tell you, Princess?”
He rolls his eyes “Something like that.” He ignores the muttered comment about who the little fairy was. “Can I use your keys?”
“No, I can use my keys and you can tell me what’s gotten your knickers in a twist.”
“I just...” He pauses, trying to think of a way to say that he’s doing what a dream told him to without sounding daft. “I’m taking a leaf from your book.”
“You what?”
“I’m following my gut.” Gene looks at him, almost scrutinizes him. He walks over to the armchair and picks up his coat before turning to once more face Sam.
“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
“Probably.”
Gene grimaces. “So where are we going?”
***
“He’s not going to be here Tyler.” He looked out of the car window at the dense mass of tree trunks. Echoes of his dream play in his mind, echoes of the last time he was in these woods. Of the mistakes he had made on that day. Any niggling fear or doubt is washed away by a wave of resolve at the thought of why he was here, the little girl in the red dress. This was his fuck up and he had to rectify it. “Did you hear me Sam? Just because the twit was thick enough to return to my city doesn’t mean he’ll return to the scene of his first bloody crime.” Sam turns away from the wall of the forest before him, looming over his head, and really looks at Gene. Something akin to sadness wells within him, and it hits him that Gene couldn’t go with him on this. He had to finish it by himself, and although the thought terrified him, it had to be him. Alone. He turns back to the forest so he doesn’t have to see Gene’s face anymore.
“I’ll tell you what. You’re probably right, but I’m still going to have a look. Maybe you’d be best off going to the station and filling everyone in or something.” He feels a hand grab his arm and jumps. He didn’t hear Gene’s footsteps behind him.
“You know, I’ve known you for a while Tyler, so I think I have a grasp on when you’re lying out of your arse.” He looked at the ground, finding a rock by his foot and focusing on it. “You think you’re right, don’t you?” He tries to say no with even the slightest amount of conviction, but the word gets stuck in his throat.
“Thought so.” Gene lets go of his arm, and he looks up to see the bastard smirking. “I’ll go get the radio’s out of the car and we’ll split up. And just so you know, if we’re out here for longer than an hour without finding anything, I’m officially declaring this a waste of time.”
“Where are you?” He follows his feet, having no clear idea where they were taking him. He walks amongst the fallen branches, amid the almost overpowering scent of dead leaves and dirt. If you asked him later, he wouldn’t be able to tell you which path he had taken, but still, he ended up where he needed to be. That same clearing amongst the trees, the place Vic had walked away from him the first time. He won’t let that happen again.
He doesn’t know what he is looking for until he finds it, hidden away amongst the undergrowth. It doesn’t mean that anything happened here of course; kids probably come here all of the time. He examines the shred of material in his hands, feeling the texture, rubbing away some of the deeply engrained dirt in order to determine its original colour. It’s not enough to prove that something happened here, and any tangible forensic evidence would be long lost by now. But for once that isn’t important. He stares at the shred of cloth, its colour so brown and faded that it’s almost impossible to see that it used to be red. It’s not enough to go on, but the insistent beeping in his head tells him that he is right. This is where the Test Card Girl died.
“Hunt. Hunt! Bugger.” He sighs. It was always going to be difficult to raise him on the radio in here anyway. It doesn’t quell the urge to kick things though. He contemplates returning to the Cortina and waiting for him there. He was probably already there anywhere. He doesn’t though. He sees Gene click his fingers in his mind, and in his gut he knows that if he leaves now he’ll miss it. He just wishes he knew what it was and that it would hurry up and kick off already. He can’t handle standing here doing nothing. He assesses the clearing once more, working out what he should do. His head starts to spin and he raises a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes.
“Hello, DI Tyler.” He doesn’t turn around, he’s not quite sure if he can face him yet. He doesn’t even know what to call him anymore, can’t find any words to address him with, and it’s this, more than the sound of a gun being cocked, more than the fact that it’s just the two of them out here, that scares the shit out of him. “Fancy seeing you here, Detective Inspector.” He hears Vic pause, and finally turns to face him. “It is still DI, isn’t it? They didn’t demote you for letting me go last time.” He observes the cocky grin; the gun aimed at his head, but feels nothing. He’s facing the monster and all he can feel is numbness. It’s probably better that way.
“Vic Tyler, I’m arresting you -”
“Are you really Sam?” He interrupts, cocking his head slightly. “Grown a pair since the last time, have you?”
He should feel the need to shout out, to do something. He hears the beeps, the whispers of those other people from that other time, but it doesn’t matter anymore. None of this is real. It can’t be.
“What have I allegedly done this time, DI Tyler? Run a red light? Become a smack king pin?”
“We found your house. Or, well, Frederick Veyron’s house anyway.”
“You’re mistaken Tyler. I haven’t had a house in a while, and I don’t know any Veyron.”
“Neither do I. Tell me this, because I’m not going to understand it. Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” The smirk on Vic’s face widens, and still he feels nothing.
“You can deny it all you want, but I’m not letting you go this time.”
“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be denying.”
“How could you do it?” He holds up the piece of cloth so that Vic could see it.
“I don’t wear red Tyler. It tends to draw attention.” He feels tired, he just wants to go to sleep and forget about all of this. The beeping grows louder.
“You’re coming in, Mr. Tyler.”
“And what are you going to do about little Sammy finding out, hey? What about Ruth? Are you going to tell them?” He keeps the gun aimed at Sam’s head and slowly begins to circle him.
“Tell them what, Vic? Is this you confessing?”
“You haven’t answered my question Tyler.”
“You don’t deserve to call yourself a father, I can arrest you under the name of Fred, no one needs to know.” He watched as Vic rolls his eyes, takes them off of him for a split second. He reaches into his coat and pulls out his revolver. “You still haven’t answered min, Vic. What twisted little part of you mind thought that kidnapping a girl and killing her for not doing what she was told was a good idea?”
“You what? I would never - “
“We saw you on the reel Vic. And then, you come here to kill her. Even a complete idiot would have to realise that this is the first place we would look. It’s almost as though you wanted to be found.” He smirks again, and stops his pacing. His grip strengthens on the gun in his hand and an ugly expression replaces the smirk.
“Maybe I did. Goodbye Detective Inspector.” He pulls the trigger.
Time slows down. The bullet leaves the barrel and pierces its way through the air. He closes his eyes and all he can see is white light.
The light hurts his eyes. He blinks a few times, trying to break through the haze. This feels wrong. The green is gone. It seems as though every colour is gone, leaving cold, dead whiteness in its wake. He’s not sure where he is, but he knows he’s not where he needs to be. Slowly the dark blurs become shapes. A man he doesn’t recognise, smiling. A clock, a vase of flowers. His mum sitting by his side with tears in her eyes.
He should feel happy. It seems like he’s made it home after all of this time. He begins to notice the warmth of his mums hand clenched around his, starts to hear the ticking of the clock and the beeps of the machines. It doesn’t fully sink in, he feels removed. It’s as though he is still numb from before.
Hell. He’s not even sure that there was a before.
Time begins to pass, and soon his old life returns. Hospital rooms give way to physical therapy sessions, give way to psychologist’s offices, give way to the CID of 2006. All business suits and PC terminals. Somehow, he’d never noticed the absence of a radio playing in the background, of god-awful armchairs and shitty TVs. He would go to have lunch at the cafeteria and realise that he didn’t know the name of the lady behind the kiosk. He asks, she replies. He never speaks to her again.
He almost likes the fact that he no longer sleeps at night. It feels more normal than anything else, more like it was in 1973. He wants to see if it all happened, but he’s not sure if he could handle the truth either way. The thought of it drives him to distraction, things begin to slip. Too angry at a suspect in a robbery. Too few phone calls to his mum, telling her that he’s okay. He doesn’t like lying. Too much scotch one night before work, too little concern when he’s bumped down to DI. It feels more comfortable now anyway. His life was slipping through his fingers, and if he didn’t grab on to something soon who knows how long it will be before it shatters to pieces on the ground.
“Your DCI thinks you should take some time off. How do you feel about that?” He looks at her. All red lips and button-down shirt. He lowers his head to disguise the smirk that appears. Gene would have a field day with this bird.
“You tell me, DI Drake. How should I feel about that?” He’s forgotten what actual feeling is like; it’s all obsession and numbness these days. He would never tell her that though. He feels her looking at him but keeps his eyes trained on his shoes. He never thought he’d miss his Cuban boots.
He hears her sigh. “Okay then. Why don’t we pick up from last time? You had just seen your mother…”
***
“Why aren’t you happy Sam?” His eyes snap open and wander around the room, landing on the television in the corner. He ignores the fact that there isn’t even a test card for her to pop out from in this time.
“You can’t be here.”
“But I’m confused. You always wanted to come back, but you’re still unhappy. Maybe you’re just grumpy all of the time.”
He can’t help but stare at the bullet wound as he replies. “Why are you here Eleanor? I found out who…” He trails off, unable to complete that sentence.
“People who do naughty things need to be punished Sam.”
“What about people who do the right thing? Do they deserve to be punished?”
“No they don’t. But then, you haven’t exactly been a good boy have you?”
He wakes up, eyes stinging in the morning light. His spin is prickling with sweat, his palm itches. A pit of fear is in his stomach and adrenaline is pumping through his veins. He can’t help but grin, it feels good to actually feel something again.
He has to do this. He can’t go on not knowing.
Being demoted has its advantages. He no longer has to corral the team, make sure everything runs smoothly. He can slip off to the library without anyone taking too much notice. He considers the archives, but decides against it. If his 1973 was real, then he knows better than to place too much faith in any of the reports that the team may or may not have written up. That’s if they had been written up in the first place of course.
He flashes his badge at the librarian, and it doesn’t take too long to get access to the microfiche. He finds the Manchester Gazette, flicks to the 1973 files, to the headlines of September the 24th. Nothing. He looks at the next day, and the day after. Still nothing. No mentions of Eleanor Harris, nothing on Vic Tyler. It’s not until the late edition on the 28th that he finds what he is looking for. Page 5. A report by Jackie Queen.
The Hunt Is On
The C Division of the Manchester Constabulary has been left in turmoil by the disappearance of two police officers. Believed to be investigating a lead on the disappearance of 9-year-old Manchester girl Eleanor Harris, the two police officers, Detective Chief Inspector Eugene Hunt, 41, and Detective Inspector Sam Tyler, 37, have been missing since late evening on the 23rd, when DCI Hunt contacted the station to inform them about a potential suspect.
There is no mention of Vic Tyler, but it doesn’t matter. He browses later editions, days and months down the track, but it looks as though he and Gene were never found. It doesn’t bother him as much as it could. Two thoughts dominate his mind. It all actually happened. There is something to go back to.
He visits his mum. He doesn’t know why, but he feels the need to double-check. He sits in the lounge. He sits with a cup of tea in his hand. She never remembers that he doesn’t have sugar in his tea anymore. “Mum?”
“Yes dear?” She smiles, and his heart aches a tiny bit.
“Do I remind you of anyone?”
She looks at him, bemused. “That’s… well. It’s a bit of an odd question Sam.”
He looks down at his tea cup. He’d really prefer to ignore the specifics if he could. “Is there anyone you have met in your life, at any time, who reminds you of me right now?”
She continues to look at him, a glint of something in her eye. He isn’t quite sure what. “This is going to sound daft, but there was this police officer, back in the seventies. Bit of an odd bloke, to be honest. At first he said his name was Bolan, but I found out later when…” she pauses, a hint of sadness before it’s hidden away. “I found out later that his real name was Sam Tyler. God, I haven’t thought about him in years.”
“And, aside from the name, did he remind you of me? I mean, as I am now?”
“You know, you actually do remind me of him a little bit. He was a police officer as well. And, well, you know what my memory is like these days, but I swear he even looked fairly similar.” She pauses, and then looks at him. “Why are you asking me this Sam?”
“Um, my psychologist said it might help me.” It was a pathetic excuse, and he knew she was thinking the same thing.
“They ask strange things, these doctors.”
He laughs, more out of nerves than anything else. “Um, yeah. They do.”
Her face softens, and she looks at her hands. “Where have you gone Sam? The doctors always said you might be different when you woke up, but it’s like you’re not even here anymore.” She looks up, and lifts a hand to cup his cheek. “Where are you?”
He thinks for a moment, as tears begin to prickle in his eyes. “I’m not sure mum.” A thumb lifts and wipes at the single tear falling slowly down his cheek. Then she smiles and lowers her hand to his shoulder, pulling him closer to hug him. He doesn’t know why this feels like goodbye.
There is no longer any doubt in his mind. Somehow, he has managed to travel through time. Vic Tyler, the bastard, was real and possibly still out there. His shitty flat, the armed blags, his leather jacket. All real. He’s still not quite sure what the Test Card Girl is, but he knows that Eleanor Harris is real at the very least. Gene Hunt is real, which means that he is really missing and it was all his fault. These thoughts plague his mind, moving amongst each other, swirling together to the exclusion of all else. He sits at his desk, he eats his dinner, he goes for a morning jog. Gene Hunt is missing, and he can’t help but think that it’s his job to find him.
He’s sitting at the table, tapping his pen against the cool metal. He should be paying attention, but the others probably expected him to be not all there anyway. The pen clicks. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. He’s not all there. He hasn’t been for a while. How is it even possible for him to be all there, when a part of him will never return? It’s all his fault. He hears the muttering and comes crashing back down to earth. “Sorry?”
“Sam, maybe you should take five minutes, clear your head.” He looks at his DCI, at this bland, prematurely balding little man who has probably never kicked in a nonce in his life, and nods. “See me in my office when you’re done.”
He climbs the stairs to the rooftop. He needs some fresh air and he just can’t be around these people right now. These people he doesn’t know, and who don’t know him. Little pieces in the puzzle of modern life. Once outside he slowly spins around, looking out at the Manchester of 2006. This wasn’t his city anymore. He didn’t know these skyscrapers, didn’t like their coldness.
Gene Hunt needs him.
Eleanor Harris needs him.
Vic Tyler needs to be destroyed.
He looks at the edge of the building. He starts to walk, which soon speeds up to a run. So what if this is completely insane? He’s happy to choose the delusion. He jumps over the edge, and it’s the first time he has genuinely smiled since he returned.
***
He falls to the ground, a heavy weight on top of him. He hears a gruff voice yell in his ear. Although this isn’t the most comfortable of positions, he doesn’t mind. If it weren’t for what he has to do, he’d almost call this happiness. He sees Vic, a grimace of mingled disappointment and shock marring his features, his gun hanging loosely from his hand. He doesn’t know where Gene came from, or how he found the two of them, but judging by the way he was shouting he wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind to welcome his questions on the topic. He registers the gun in his own hand, feels its cold weight against his fingers. Now was the time, before Vic gathers his wits again. His finger curls around the trigger. He has to do this. There’s no time for thinking. He closes his eyes and shoots.
***
“I hope you realise that I took a bullet for you.”
“Yes Guv.” He stares at the wall behind Gene’s bed, only just registering the words coming out of his mouth. The next words are quieter, Sam barely hears him. He looks up. “What?”
“It’s not your fault Sam. None of it.”
“You’re a shit liar Gene.”
“I am not shit at anything Gladys. Sure you let the ponce go in the first place, but we got him in the end.”
He ignores the consolation in Gene’s words. “What are we going to tell the press?”
“Simple. Once upon a time a Mr. Frederick Veyron kidnapped a girl and shot her. The nonce was clearly a bit off his nut and returned to the scene of the crime, where he had the misfortune to meet the legendary Gene Genie and his faithful companion. The end. Good enough bedtime story for you?”
He looks at Gene for the first time since he sat on the chair next to his hospital bed. “But it wasn’t Fred Veyron.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think we need the scum’s wife and little kiddy knowing what a prick he turned out to be. It’s not their fault.”
“Thanks Gene.”
“I don’t need thanks. Just remember that I saved your scrawny little arse next time you start prattling on about Hyde or paperwork or some other bollocks, alright?” He smiles. It might not be alright, probably won't be for a while, but at least it beats the alternative.
Author: acidpenguin46
Characters: Sam, Gene, The Test Card Girl, Vic Tyler, Ruth Tyler, Alex Drake, mentions of Phyllis, Chris and Ray.
Rating: NC-17 (Red Cortina)
Word Count: 6516
Warnings: Disturbing imagery, vague references to child pornography (in a criminal case), character death, ignores the existence of Frank Morgan and the MARS operation, gen (shock horror), mild blood-related gore, swearing and violence.
Summary: Sam Tyler isn't the only victim.
Disclaimer: None of it is mine, it all belongs to Kudos and Aunty Beeb.
Notes: If anyone reads this after those sorts of warnings I'll be very surprised, but Iit's one of those things that I had to write. Hell, variations of this idea have been in the back of my mind ever since I saw the finale for the first time, which was well over a year ago, so it's about time that it was actually written. I'm still not sure if I'm even going to post this over at lifein1973 , but at least it's out of my system now.Many thanks to the lovely wyvernwolf for looking over this for me, I greatly appreciate it! *hugs*
Any remaining mistakes are my own, and any comments/concrit are much appreciated.
***
When The Hunter Becomes The Hunted
“Daddy’s always let you down, don’t they?”
“Why are you still here Sam?”
“I’m your only friend.”
He startles awake, heart beating like a drum and sweat clinging to his skin, making the clothes he had fallen asleep in stick to his body. His eyes wander towards the television and sure enough she’s sitting there. Legs crossed, clown doll hanging down loosely from her grasp, obscuring the empty test card. “Hello Sam. Do you want to play?” She tilts her head to the side and giggles, watching him. He closes his eyes, willing her to leave. A loud knock rings throughout the flat and he opens his eyes. He doesn’t even need to look at the TV to know that she’s gone.
He lifts a hand, pushing his fingers through his hair as he untangles his legs from the mess of sheets before standing up to open the door. The sudden burst of light hurts his eyes, and through the dull haze of pain he hears his DCI order him to grab his coat. “Why?” He rubs his eyes with a loose fist, trying to wipe the sleep from them.
“A little girl’s gone missing.”
“Eleanor Harris. 9 years old. Parents are down at the station, poor sods.” He notices the slump in Gene’s shoulders, the too long drags on his cigarette, but chooses to ignore it.
“How long has she been missing for.”
“Since school ended. Both of them were working so they got a friend of theirs to pick her up, and according to him she weren’t there.”
“Questioned him, have you?”
“Could say that.” He drops the cigarette to the ground and stubs it out with his loafers. “Jesus, you look like shit Tyler.”
He grimaces. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Hey, and I bet her mum and dad slept like babies.” Sam opens the passenger side door and slips inside, turning his eyes away from the first rays of dawn to watch as Gene plonks down on the driver’s seat and reaches for the ignition, bringing the engine to life.
The car ride to the station was eerily silent, both of them lost in their own thoughts. He looks at Gene a couple of times, observing him. Detecting the bags under his eyes, the tense hold on the steering wheel. He always makes sure to turn away before Gene notices. He drums his fingers against his calves, all too aware that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and that it wouldn’t be hard to mistake him for the living dead. If it were any other situation he would smirk at the irony. They reach the station, and for once he’s almost glad to be out of the car.
She hadn’t come in over a week, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. It’s not as though she wasn’t still keeping him awake for most of the night. He’d stagger into his flat, 2 or 3 in the morning, and collapse on to his shitty excuse for a bed, not even noticing the springs poking through the threadbare mattress as he passed out for a brief nap before the next day would start much the same as the last one did. He hadn’t seen anything that wasn’t his flat, CID or the Arms, hadn’t even heard anything from “Hyde”, for the last four days. All of the courses had been run, every lead followed through to no end. The words haven’t been spoken aloud, but you could tell that no one expected a happy outcome. He tries to appear worried, he thinks he may be sometimes, but he can tell by the looks of disgust on Gene’s face, the way he’d take Ray if a new lead cropped up, that his façade wasn’t working.
He decides to skip the Arms tonight. It’s hardly any better than drinking alone in his flat; everyone just sat there, drinking in stony silence, waiting for the seemingly inevitable to float down the canal. He keeps the lights off and sits on the floor at the end of his bed, slowly drinking himself into a stupor. It’s not like it matters if he turns up to work with a hangover.
A piece of paper floats into his lap. He picks it up and looks at the picture scrawled across it. A mess of freshly painted trees, little droplets of red still dripping slowly from the bottom of the trunks. “Do you like finger-painting Sam? It’s ever so much fun.” He doesn’t look up, just keeps his eyes on the paper. He doesn’t want to see her.
“What did you paint this with Eleanor?”
“How do you know my name? You’re not supposed to know that.”
He ignores her question, and repeats his own. “What did you use to paint this?”
There was a hint of impatience in her voice, frustrated that he wouldn’t listen to her. “I used this.” He slowly lifts his gaze, trying to detachedly observe her scuffed shoes. The clown doll, covered with leaves and mud. The torn red dress. His gaze travels further still, until it lands upon where she was pointing. A gaping bullet hole in the middle of her forehead, the blood trickling down her nose where it was smudged, the purple bruise spreading from the torn apart flesh. He feels like he is going to be sick. “Do you like my picture?”
The light hurts his eyes as he opens his eyes, escaping his nightmare with a piece of crumpled paper clenched in his fist.
***
“She’s dead.” He tries to look like he’s surprised, but needn’t have bothered. Gene wasn’t even looking at him.
“Where was she found?”
“Down by the wharves.” He sounds defeated, almost as though he was dead himself. He looks up and down the hallway before raising his arm, hesitantly bringing a hand to rest on Gene’s shoulder.
“We’ll find the bastard Guv.” Gene looks down at him, a quick flash of pain quickly masked by anger and disgust.
“Piss off, Tyler.” He bats the hand away and stalks off.
She’s lying on the slab, her face drained of colour except for the entry wound in the middle of her forehead. The blood is gone, the shoes and dress lying in an evidence bag on the counter. He’s glad Gene handled her parents; he was having enough trouble examining her without the contents of last night’s drinking resurfacing. Oddly enough, it’s the most human he has ever seen her. He needs to get out.
“Give us a fag.”
“What, and pollute your precious lungs?” He rolls his eyes as Gene looks at him in annoyed confusion.
“I just - I need…” He trails off. He doesn’t even know what he needs right now. Gene looks at him searchingly, before reaching into the coat of his pocket.
“I s’spose you need a light as well?”
“No. I keep a lighter on me at all times to ward off the fucking leprechauns.” He watches as Gene reaches into another pocket and pulls out a lighter, passing it and a liberated cigarette over. He knows that Gene is watching but chooses to ignore him, instead focusing on the way the lighter sparks, the way the tobacco and paper start to burn. He inhales the smoke into his lungs and immediately starts to cough. He hasn’t done this in a while. Gene mutters the word “girl” under his breath, and he doesn’t dignify it with a response. They stand next to each other in silence instead, too close like always. Gene finishes first and lets the filter drop to the ground, stubbing it out under his loafer.
“We’ll find the bastard Sam.” He pulls the cigarette from between his lips, nodding as he exhales. Then he watches as Gene walks away.
***
The sound of a hand slapping against skin fills the Lost and Found room. “You know, you should’ve been locked up ages ago, a useless piece of shit like you.”
“I don’t know nothing, Hunt.” Another hit, clenched fist meeting bruised cheekbone.
“I don’t mean in regards to actual skills, Hartley, it’s obvious you don’t know anything as far as that’s concerned. But you do know something about this case, and I’m going to beat ten types of living shit out of you until you tell me what that is.”
“You’ll be here a long time then.” Sam rolls his eyes. For all of Hunt’s declarations of finding the bastard responsible, they weren’t getting very far. The usual snouts knew nothing and there was no evidence at the wharves, so really he should have expected the next course of action to be interrogating possible suspect’s ala Gene Hunt. He watched as Gene’s fist sinks into Hartley’s stomach, watches as he hunches over in pain. He didn’t need this. He walks across the room and steps outside.
“Have fun in there, did you?” As soon as Gene leaves Lost and Found he speaks, having not left the wall outside since he vacated the proceedings.
“You know, if I didn’t already know that it would be useless to try, I would’ve told you to shut your mouth Tyler.”
He turns around to face Gene. “We’re not going to get anyone beating up every man in Manchester who has ever had so much as a speeding ticket.”
“Oh yeah? And tell me, where’s your contribution to solving this case Gladys?” He steps in closer, right into his personal space, as his voice lowers dangerously and then, almost like the fight had left him as soon as it arrived; he turns and rests his back against the wall next to Sam, letting his head fall back against the concrete with a soft thunk. He looks up into his face as he draws a deep breath. “We have to find something. Little girls do not get murdered in my city without the tosser responsible being strung up by his balls.” He stops and turns his head to look down at Sam. “What was wrong with you before? Up until we found her it was like you weren’t even bothered about her being missing.”
He drops his head, trying to search his mind for a plausible answer. “I had some other stuff going on.”
“What, your time of the month, was it?” He rolls his eyes, but all the same couldn’t help but smirk. Gene seemed to consider that a good enough answer for now. “Come on my little deputy dog. We’ve got some scum to sort out.”
He sits down at his desk, grateful for the brief respite from the Lost and Found room. He notices the mess of folders, the loose pieces of paper, and starts to idly flick through them. The barely legible scribblings and coffee-stained paper are oddly comforting, but still offer nothing useful. Teachers saying she was fine before she left school that day. The drunken fisherman who found her body. The next door neighbour who offered Chris some tea and biscuits. The recently deserted house at the end of the street she lived on. He stops and reads it again, eyes stopping on the messy signature at the bottom of the sheet. Fucking Carling.
***
The glass shatters around his coat bound fist. “You know, I could have just picked the lock.” Gene shoots him a look of mystified disgust before reaching a hand through the broken glass to open the deadbolt, and he shuts his mouth. He waits until Gene enters and the follows, bending his knees to rifle through the pile of letters on the floor. He can’t have been gone for more than a week. “Frederick Veyron.” He looks up to see if Gene recognised the name, only to hear the sound of something breaking from the next room. He straightens and moves towards the sound. “I know you like smashing things Guv, but do you think it’s really necessary.”
“I know you like hearing the sound of your own voice as well Tyler, but you don’t hear me whinging about how it’s not really necessary.” He shuts his mouth against the retort trying to escape.
“Found anything?”
“Yeah. Judging by the looks of things he wasn’t here for all that long before she went missing either, barely looks like he unpacked.” He stops and looks around, taking note of the things that Mr. Veyron had bothered to unload. A new (well, new for 1973 anyway) camera. A projector. A set of gaudy silk sheets. His stomach sinks, and he moves over to the projector, stopping and searching until he found the on switch.
A greenish light flickers against the adjacent wall, and an amplified male voice fills the room. “Just sit still, there’s a good girl.” He sinks to his knees, the familiar voice making him feel sick.
“I don’t want to.” He hears Eleanor begin to sob, hears Gene walk towards him. “I want to go home.”
“It won’t take long sweetheart. Then you can play with the clown Uncle Freddy brought for you.” He’s not even watching anymore, he can’t.
“I’m going home.”
“Don’t you want to make Uncle Freddy happy? Uncle Frank is a nice man, he won’t hurt you.”
“I want to go home.” Small footsteps, stifled by carpet. The sound of the camera crashing to the floor. A muffled scream and a loud thump.
The projector flickers out and the room darkens. He feels Gene’s hand on his shoulder, trying to settle him down and stop him shaking. “Tyler.” He feels Gene shake him, but doesn’t respond. He repeats the word, only slightly louder, and he slowly turns his head to look up at him. “It’s all my fault.”
“Phyllis, get an APB out on Vic Tyler.” He hears the radio crackle, but doesn’t hear Phyllis respond. “Do I sound like I’m fucking joking? Get it done Phyllis.” He hears Gene throw the radio against the wall, but still doesn’t stand.
“For Christ’s sake Tyler, pull yourself together. You can have a good old cry later.”
He stares at the floor, barely comprehending the words coming out of Gene’s mouth. “I let him go.” He needs to hit something, or for something to hit him until he can’t feel anymore.
“And we’re all proud of you, but you need to keep it together.” He looks up at Gene, at the man he pulled a gun on to protect…
“I need a drink.”
Gene pulls a flask from his coat and hands it over. He takes it from him and unscrews the lid, letting the whiskey burn a path down his throat before instantly bringing it back up again.
“Fucking hell Sam, keep it together. We can still get the ponce.” He remains still, staring at the vomit slowly seeping into the carpet. Hands grab him by the shoulders and roughly pull him upright, making him stand before pushing him towards the door. Mobility slowly returns, and once he’s outside he can put one foot in front of the other by himself. He walks to the passenger side door of the Cortina and leans his head against it, the cool metal slowing the dizziness in his head. “We have to find him Gene.” He looks up and sees him around the other side of the car.
“Right now you need to get some sleep.”
”But we…”
“This isn’t up for discussion. Besides, what’s your grand plan? Drive along every street until we find him waving his arms about, saying ‘arrest me’? I’m taking you home Sam.”
He could argue back, he should at least try to make Gene see sense, but he can’t be bothered. He opens the passenger side door and slips inside the seat instead.
“Where are you?” Flashes of light, piercing through bright green leaves. He hears a scream, but it’s not the woman in the red dress. This one sounds younger, more high-pitched. More like the scream he heard at Vic Tyler’s place. He sees Vic with a gun in his hand, he watches as the bullet leaves the barrel. A piece of paper falls in front of him as the young Sam Tyler once more asks where his daddy is.
He wakes up, sweat clinging to his skin and his head pounding. Somehow he was in his own bed, and as he runs a hand through his hair in confusion, his fingers brush against something. Through the haze he reaches for it, hand fumbling until it curls around the crumpled wad of paper. “Was wondering when you would wake up.” He hides the recent discovery under his pillow, and squints until he can make out the form of Gene sitting on his armchair.
“What am I doing here?”
“You crashed out in the car, and I couldn’t wake you up when we got here. You might have to fix your door by the way.”
He groans and sits up, rubbing at his eyes with a clenched fist. “And what are you doing here?”
“Had to make sure you didn’t wake up and do anything stupid, didn’t I?” He watches as Gene stands up. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a piss.” He’s left alone, and pulls the wad of paper out from under his sheets. He can still see the blood red outline of some of the trees.
***
“What the hell are you playing at Tyler?”
He pulls his jacket over his arm as he looks up at Gene. “I know where he is.”
“Oh, really? Did a little fairy come and visit you during the night to tell you, Princess?”
He rolls his eyes “Something like that.” He ignores the muttered comment about who the little fairy was. “Can I use your keys?”
“No, I can use my keys and you can tell me what’s gotten your knickers in a twist.”
“I just...” He pauses, trying to think of a way to say that he’s doing what a dream told him to without sounding daft. “I’m taking a leaf from your book.”
“You what?”
“I’m following my gut.” Gene looks at him, almost scrutinizes him. He walks over to the armchair and picks up his coat before turning to once more face Sam.
“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
“Probably.”
Gene grimaces. “So where are we going?”
***
“He’s not going to be here Tyler.” He looked out of the car window at the dense mass of tree trunks. Echoes of his dream play in his mind, echoes of the last time he was in these woods. Of the mistakes he had made on that day. Any niggling fear or doubt is washed away by a wave of resolve at the thought of why he was here, the little girl in the red dress. This was his fuck up and he had to rectify it. “Did you hear me Sam? Just because the twit was thick enough to return to my city doesn’t mean he’ll return to the scene of his first bloody crime.” Sam turns away from the wall of the forest before him, looming over his head, and really looks at Gene. Something akin to sadness wells within him, and it hits him that Gene couldn’t go with him on this. He had to finish it by himself, and although the thought terrified him, it had to be him. Alone. He turns back to the forest so he doesn’t have to see Gene’s face anymore.
“I’ll tell you what. You’re probably right, but I’m still going to have a look. Maybe you’d be best off going to the station and filling everyone in or something.” He feels a hand grab his arm and jumps. He didn’t hear Gene’s footsteps behind him.
“You know, I’ve known you for a while Tyler, so I think I have a grasp on when you’re lying out of your arse.” He looked at the ground, finding a rock by his foot and focusing on it. “You think you’re right, don’t you?” He tries to say no with even the slightest amount of conviction, but the word gets stuck in his throat.
“Thought so.” Gene lets go of his arm, and he looks up to see the bastard smirking. “I’ll go get the radio’s out of the car and we’ll split up. And just so you know, if we’re out here for longer than an hour without finding anything, I’m officially declaring this a waste of time.”
“Where are you?” He follows his feet, having no clear idea where they were taking him. He walks amongst the fallen branches, amid the almost overpowering scent of dead leaves and dirt. If you asked him later, he wouldn’t be able to tell you which path he had taken, but still, he ended up where he needed to be. That same clearing amongst the trees, the place Vic had walked away from him the first time. He won’t let that happen again.
He doesn’t know what he is looking for until he finds it, hidden away amongst the undergrowth. It doesn’t mean that anything happened here of course; kids probably come here all of the time. He examines the shred of material in his hands, feeling the texture, rubbing away some of the deeply engrained dirt in order to determine its original colour. It’s not enough to prove that something happened here, and any tangible forensic evidence would be long lost by now. But for once that isn’t important. He stares at the shred of cloth, its colour so brown and faded that it’s almost impossible to see that it used to be red. It’s not enough to go on, but the insistent beeping in his head tells him that he is right. This is where the Test Card Girl died.
“Hunt. Hunt! Bugger.” He sighs. It was always going to be difficult to raise him on the radio in here anyway. It doesn’t quell the urge to kick things though. He contemplates returning to the Cortina and waiting for him there. He was probably already there anywhere. He doesn’t though. He sees Gene click his fingers in his mind, and in his gut he knows that if he leaves now he’ll miss it. He just wishes he knew what it was and that it would hurry up and kick off already. He can’t handle standing here doing nothing. He assesses the clearing once more, working out what he should do. His head starts to spin and he raises a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes.
“Hello, DI Tyler.” He doesn’t turn around, he’s not quite sure if he can face him yet. He doesn’t even know what to call him anymore, can’t find any words to address him with, and it’s this, more than the sound of a gun being cocked, more than the fact that it’s just the two of them out here, that scares the shit out of him. “Fancy seeing you here, Detective Inspector.” He hears Vic pause, and finally turns to face him. “It is still DI, isn’t it? They didn’t demote you for letting me go last time.” He observes the cocky grin; the gun aimed at his head, but feels nothing. He’s facing the monster and all he can feel is numbness. It’s probably better that way.
“Vic Tyler, I’m arresting you -”
“Are you really Sam?” He interrupts, cocking his head slightly. “Grown a pair since the last time, have you?”
He should feel the need to shout out, to do something. He hears the beeps, the whispers of those other people from that other time, but it doesn’t matter anymore. None of this is real. It can’t be.
“What have I allegedly done this time, DI Tyler? Run a red light? Become a smack king pin?”
“We found your house. Or, well, Frederick Veyron’s house anyway.”
“You’re mistaken Tyler. I haven’t had a house in a while, and I don’t know any Veyron.”
“Neither do I. Tell me this, because I’m not going to understand it. Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” The smirk on Vic’s face widens, and still he feels nothing.
“You can deny it all you want, but I’m not letting you go this time.”
“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be denying.”
“How could you do it?” He holds up the piece of cloth so that Vic could see it.
“I don’t wear red Tyler. It tends to draw attention.” He feels tired, he just wants to go to sleep and forget about all of this. The beeping grows louder.
“You’re coming in, Mr. Tyler.”
“And what are you going to do about little Sammy finding out, hey? What about Ruth? Are you going to tell them?” He keeps the gun aimed at Sam’s head and slowly begins to circle him.
“Tell them what, Vic? Is this you confessing?”
“You haven’t answered my question Tyler.”
“You don’t deserve to call yourself a father, I can arrest you under the name of Fred, no one needs to know.” He watched as Vic rolls his eyes, takes them off of him for a split second. He reaches into his coat and pulls out his revolver. “You still haven’t answered min, Vic. What twisted little part of you mind thought that kidnapping a girl and killing her for not doing what she was told was a good idea?”
“You what? I would never - “
“We saw you on the reel Vic. And then, you come here to kill her. Even a complete idiot would have to realise that this is the first place we would look. It’s almost as though you wanted to be found.” He smirks again, and stops his pacing. His grip strengthens on the gun in his hand and an ugly expression replaces the smirk.
“Maybe I did. Goodbye Detective Inspector.” He pulls the trigger.
Time slows down. The bullet leaves the barrel and pierces its way through the air. He closes his eyes and all he can see is white light.
The light hurts his eyes. He blinks a few times, trying to break through the haze. This feels wrong. The green is gone. It seems as though every colour is gone, leaving cold, dead whiteness in its wake. He’s not sure where he is, but he knows he’s not where he needs to be. Slowly the dark blurs become shapes. A man he doesn’t recognise, smiling. A clock, a vase of flowers. His mum sitting by his side with tears in her eyes.
He should feel happy. It seems like he’s made it home after all of this time. He begins to notice the warmth of his mums hand clenched around his, starts to hear the ticking of the clock and the beeps of the machines. It doesn’t fully sink in, he feels removed. It’s as though he is still numb from before.
Hell. He’s not even sure that there was a before.
Time begins to pass, and soon his old life returns. Hospital rooms give way to physical therapy sessions, give way to psychologist’s offices, give way to the CID of 2006. All business suits and PC terminals. Somehow, he’d never noticed the absence of a radio playing in the background, of god-awful armchairs and shitty TVs. He would go to have lunch at the cafeteria and realise that he didn’t know the name of the lady behind the kiosk. He asks, she replies. He never speaks to her again.
He almost likes the fact that he no longer sleeps at night. It feels more normal than anything else, more like it was in 1973. He wants to see if it all happened, but he’s not sure if he could handle the truth either way. The thought of it drives him to distraction, things begin to slip. Too angry at a suspect in a robbery. Too few phone calls to his mum, telling her that he’s okay. He doesn’t like lying. Too much scotch one night before work, too little concern when he’s bumped down to DI. It feels more comfortable now anyway. His life was slipping through his fingers, and if he didn’t grab on to something soon who knows how long it will be before it shatters to pieces on the ground.
“Your DCI thinks you should take some time off. How do you feel about that?” He looks at her. All red lips and button-down shirt. He lowers his head to disguise the smirk that appears. Gene would have a field day with this bird.
“You tell me, DI Drake. How should I feel about that?” He’s forgotten what actual feeling is like; it’s all obsession and numbness these days. He would never tell her that though. He feels her looking at him but keeps his eyes trained on his shoes. He never thought he’d miss his Cuban boots.
He hears her sigh. “Okay then. Why don’t we pick up from last time? You had just seen your mother…”
***
“Why aren’t you happy Sam?” His eyes snap open and wander around the room, landing on the television in the corner. He ignores the fact that there isn’t even a test card for her to pop out from in this time.
“You can’t be here.”
“But I’m confused. You always wanted to come back, but you’re still unhappy. Maybe you’re just grumpy all of the time.”
He can’t help but stare at the bullet wound as he replies. “Why are you here Eleanor? I found out who…” He trails off, unable to complete that sentence.
“People who do naughty things need to be punished Sam.”
“What about people who do the right thing? Do they deserve to be punished?”
“No they don’t. But then, you haven’t exactly been a good boy have you?”
He wakes up, eyes stinging in the morning light. His spin is prickling with sweat, his palm itches. A pit of fear is in his stomach and adrenaline is pumping through his veins. He can’t help but grin, it feels good to actually feel something again.
He has to do this. He can’t go on not knowing.
Being demoted has its advantages. He no longer has to corral the team, make sure everything runs smoothly. He can slip off to the library without anyone taking too much notice. He considers the archives, but decides against it. If his 1973 was real, then he knows better than to place too much faith in any of the reports that the team may or may not have written up. That’s if they had been written up in the first place of course.
He flashes his badge at the librarian, and it doesn’t take too long to get access to the microfiche. He finds the Manchester Gazette, flicks to the 1973 files, to the headlines of September the 24th. Nothing. He looks at the next day, and the day after. Still nothing. No mentions of Eleanor Harris, nothing on Vic Tyler. It’s not until the late edition on the 28th that he finds what he is looking for. Page 5. A report by Jackie Queen.
The Hunt Is On
The C Division of the Manchester Constabulary has been left in turmoil by the disappearance of two police officers. Believed to be investigating a lead on the disappearance of 9-year-old Manchester girl Eleanor Harris, the two police officers, Detective Chief Inspector Eugene Hunt, 41, and Detective Inspector Sam Tyler, 37, have been missing since late evening on the 23rd, when DCI Hunt contacted the station to inform them about a potential suspect.
There is no mention of Vic Tyler, but it doesn’t matter. He browses later editions, days and months down the track, but it looks as though he and Gene were never found. It doesn’t bother him as much as it could. Two thoughts dominate his mind. It all actually happened. There is something to go back to.
He visits his mum. He doesn’t know why, but he feels the need to double-check. He sits in the lounge. He sits with a cup of tea in his hand. She never remembers that he doesn’t have sugar in his tea anymore. “Mum?”
“Yes dear?” She smiles, and his heart aches a tiny bit.
“Do I remind you of anyone?”
She looks at him, bemused. “That’s… well. It’s a bit of an odd question Sam.”
He looks down at his tea cup. He’d really prefer to ignore the specifics if he could. “Is there anyone you have met in your life, at any time, who reminds you of me right now?”
She continues to look at him, a glint of something in her eye. He isn’t quite sure what. “This is going to sound daft, but there was this police officer, back in the seventies. Bit of an odd bloke, to be honest. At first he said his name was Bolan, but I found out later when…” she pauses, a hint of sadness before it’s hidden away. “I found out later that his real name was Sam Tyler. God, I haven’t thought about him in years.”
“And, aside from the name, did he remind you of me? I mean, as I am now?”
“You know, you actually do remind me of him a little bit. He was a police officer as well. And, well, you know what my memory is like these days, but I swear he even looked fairly similar.” She pauses, and then looks at him. “Why are you asking me this Sam?”
“Um, my psychologist said it might help me.” It was a pathetic excuse, and he knew she was thinking the same thing.
“They ask strange things, these doctors.”
He laughs, more out of nerves than anything else. “Um, yeah. They do.”
Her face softens, and she looks at her hands. “Where have you gone Sam? The doctors always said you might be different when you woke up, but it’s like you’re not even here anymore.” She looks up, and lifts a hand to cup his cheek. “Where are you?”
He thinks for a moment, as tears begin to prickle in his eyes. “I’m not sure mum.” A thumb lifts and wipes at the single tear falling slowly down his cheek. Then she smiles and lowers her hand to his shoulder, pulling him closer to hug him. He doesn’t know why this feels like goodbye.
There is no longer any doubt in his mind. Somehow, he has managed to travel through time. Vic Tyler, the bastard, was real and possibly still out there. His shitty flat, the armed blags, his leather jacket. All real. He’s still not quite sure what the Test Card Girl is, but he knows that Eleanor Harris is real at the very least. Gene Hunt is real, which means that he is really missing and it was all his fault. These thoughts plague his mind, moving amongst each other, swirling together to the exclusion of all else. He sits at his desk, he eats his dinner, he goes for a morning jog. Gene Hunt is missing, and he can’t help but think that it’s his job to find him.
He’s sitting at the table, tapping his pen against the cool metal. He should be paying attention, but the others probably expected him to be not all there anyway. The pen clicks. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. He’s not all there. He hasn’t been for a while. How is it even possible for him to be all there, when a part of him will never return? It’s all his fault. He hears the muttering and comes crashing back down to earth. “Sorry?”
“Sam, maybe you should take five minutes, clear your head.” He looks at his DCI, at this bland, prematurely balding little man who has probably never kicked in a nonce in his life, and nods. “See me in my office when you’re done.”
He climbs the stairs to the rooftop. He needs some fresh air and he just can’t be around these people right now. These people he doesn’t know, and who don’t know him. Little pieces in the puzzle of modern life. Once outside he slowly spins around, looking out at the Manchester of 2006. This wasn’t his city anymore. He didn’t know these skyscrapers, didn’t like their coldness.
Gene Hunt needs him.
Eleanor Harris needs him.
Vic Tyler needs to be destroyed.
He looks at the edge of the building. He starts to walk, which soon speeds up to a run. So what if this is completely insane? He’s happy to choose the delusion. He jumps over the edge, and it’s the first time he has genuinely smiled since he returned.
***
He falls to the ground, a heavy weight on top of him. He hears a gruff voice yell in his ear. Although this isn’t the most comfortable of positions, he doesn’t mind. If it weren’t for what he has to do, he’d almost call this happiness. He sees Vic, a grimace of mingled disappointment and shock marring his features, his gun hanging loosely from his hand. He doesn’t know where Gene came from, or how he found the two of them, but judging by the way he was shouting he wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind to welcome his questions on the topic. He registers the gun in his own hand, feels its cold weight against his fingers. Now was the time, before Vic gathers his wits again. His finger curls around the trigger. He has to do this. There’s no time for thinking. He closes his eyes and shoots.
***
“I hope you realise that I took a bullet for you.”
“Yes Guv.” He stares at the wall behind Gene’s bed, only just registering the words coming out of his mouth. The next words are quieter, Sam barely hears him. He looks up. “What?”
“It’s not your fault Sam. None of it.”
“You’re a shit liar Gene.”
“I am not shit at anything Gladys. Sure you let the ponce go in the first place, but we got him in the end.”
He ignores the consolation in Gene’s words. “What are we going to tell the press?”
“Simple. Once upon a time a Mr. Frederick Veyron kidnapped a girl and shot her. The nonce was clearly a bit off his nut and returned to the scene of the crime, where he had the misfortune to meet the legendary Gene Genie and his faithful companion. The end. Good enough bedtime story for you?”
He looks at Gene for the first time since he sat on the chair next to his hospital bed. “But it wasn’t Fred Veyron.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think we need the scum’s wife and little kiddy knowing what a prick he turned out to be. It’s not their fault.”
“Thanks Gene.”
“I don’t need thanks. Just remember that I saved your scrawny little arse next time you start prattling on about Hyde or paperwork or some other bollocks, alright?” He smiles. It might not be alright, probably won't be for a while, but at least it beats the alternative.