Part 3
Author: echo_voice
Title: Follow the yellow brick road (Part Three of what seems to be more than expected!)
Rating: Red Cortina to be safe, but it's not that bad. WARNING: this does contain self-harm, so if that upsets you, don't read!
Pairings: Sam/Annie, Sam/Gene
Spoilers: The whole show, I think! 2.02, 2.07 and 2.08 are the important ones.
Summary: Sam's identity crisis is going too far, while Gene realises that it's often the ones you least suspect.
Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, and once again a few bits of dialogue have been nicked from the show
A/N: Thanks to everybody who's still reading, I hope this part doesn't disappoint. And yes, I will come up with a conclusion eventually... All reviews critical or otherwise are gratefully received.
It’s funny, the things we choose to feel guilty about. Sam sat in the local archives trawling through newspaper scraps on a table lit by a single lamp. Hours had passed since he’d run out of CID. He knew Annie would be looking for him, worried, concerned, feeling blocked out, and he couldn’t quite feel guilty. He knew Gene would be furious, and he felt a pang of something, but it wasn’t guilt; Gene would understand, he would forgive him, just as he had always done. And here he was staring at the black words of a past he didn’t even have any memory of and he was feeling guilty as sin.
Yet it was an odd kind of guilt, a numb and detached guilt. His eyes swept over the headlines. Here they were: headlines of the past, documentations of all of King’s last crimes.
The rabbit down the rabbit hole. A young woman, buried alive.
The tea party. Two men, poisoned.
The Cheshire Cat. The disappearance of a valuable witness, the only clue left behind a piece of paper with a crudely drawn smile.
The Queen of Hearts. DI Ramsay’s wife, kidnapped and held hostage by King.
Wonderland up in flames. King’s house, where they tried to rescue her, up in flames. DI Ramsay inside.
King was a sick, sick man.
And what was worse was that underneath the turmoil of emotions where Sam’s detective mind was trying to force its way through his consciousness, he didn’t understand the cases. Why the childhood stories? What the hell had King been aiming for? The police had tried to draw links between the victims. The young woman had apparently had no links to King. The two men were known criminals, but had nothing seemingly to do with King. The witness was obviously killed to cover any tracks. But Ramsay and his wife? Ramsay had claimed to have never met King before in his life. And there was not a scrap of evidence to link King to the crimes that wasn’t circumstantial and utterly useless.
Ramsay’s wife had apparently miraculously survived the fire. As had he. The report on the arson quoted Morgan saying that his officer Sam Williams was unable to comment, but was for the most part uninjured.
Of course, Sam had no proof that this was what Morgan had referred to when he had told Sam that he had let a colleague die, but if the seventies had taught him anything it was to trust his gut instinct, and his gut instinct was currently screaming.
This tore apart everything. Because now he didn’t know who he was: Sam Tyler, the squeaky clean moral compass of 2007, the whirlwind of positive change in 1973 CID; or Sam Williams, the backstabbing bastard who let his colleague burn to death, the man set up to bring down Gene Hunt, the ally of DCI Frank Morgan.
He walked home in a kind of daze, a bottle of whiskey swinging in his hand. A good part of the bottle drained away that night as he stared at his blank TV screen, wondering when the Test Card girl was going to come and taunt him. Wondering if she was going to come and taunt him. He hadn’t been alone in his flat yet, hadn’t dared: he’d had Annie in here one night, Gene in the other. And now he was here with a tangled conscience craving any kind of comfort, even from the Test Card girl, but he was utterly alone. He felt numb. As numb as he had done in that meeting as clipped voices from 2007 had washed over him. It wasn’t simple anymore.
And then he realised that it hadn’t really been simple then. He had hurled himself off of that building with only one thought in mind: that it was the right thing to do. He had figured it would all be fine in 1973, because how could it not be? He had made a final decision, taken the definitive step. For a while he could believe that, with forgiveness falling into his lap and Annie’s lips on his, but it was never going to be that easy because Morgan had broken his mind apart when he told him he had a different life. That he wasn’t who he thought he was. Now he was lost.
That was the crux of it. None of it made any sense, and Sam was a rational man, and could only suspend disbelief for a while before his mind would demand explanation. He’d pretended for a while that he’d resolved it all when he chose 1973, chose his friends and making a difference and living and Gene, but now his mind was louder than his heart and it wanted answers. Answers he did not have. Now he didn’t know dream from reality as strongly as before, perhaps more so, couldn’t bear to be inside his own mind for fear that it was playing tricks. He thought he had solved that conundrum when he jumped: two possible realities, choose one and it’ll be okay. Apart from the fact that one of the realities is offering two possible explanations, two possible identities and he can’t prove one from the other, only via his memories and god knows they aren’t reliable. It’s not a question of real or unreal. He decided what he wanted to be real when his feet left the building. The question’s changed, and now it’s Tyler or Williams, and none of it makes any bloody sense.
Sam could really have done with crying. He didn’t feel tears though. He could have done with hitting something, but he didn’t know what to be angry about. He could have done with getting drunk, but the whiskey was sliding down and doing nothing but fuzz the edges. And he saw in his mind’s eye a memory, or a premonition, or a bloody trick of the mind, he didn’t know, of blood oozing from his thumb. That’s how he had known in 2007. So that’s how he’d know here. Faintly in the back of his mind he knew that this was not a solution, but it didn’t seem wrong to want to know just how bad it had got. So he walked over to his cabinet, took out his razor, and closed his eyes before sliding it over the pad of skin with shaking hands.
Nothing.
He stared at the blood leaking from the cut in confusion. No pain, nothing. So, what, he didn’t feel here either? That wasn’t fair. That couldn’t be true. That meant that he simply wasn’t living at all. The living dead.
And desperately he rolled up his sleeve, exposing the smooth white forearm and drew neat shallow lines there as well, watching the crimson spring up as though he was observing it from afar.
Nothing.
He had never felt so empty in his whole life. He didn’t know who the hell he was. Sam dropped the razor as though burned and it clattered to the floor.
The whiskey beckoned and he slugged at the bottle until exhaustion overtook him and Sam walked like a zombie into bed. He lay looking at the ceiling for hours, his marked and still bloodied forearm turned up exposed on top of the covers, running slow trails of crimson down to stain the bedsheets. Finally the exhaustion and whiskey took their toll and he fell asleep, newspaper cuttings scattered around him.
***
There’s something oddly comforting about routine in the face of extreme shock. It offers something to cling to, a shred of normality. So Sam got out of bed that morning, drank half a cup of coffee (he couldn’t manage the rest), showered (washing the dried blood from his abused forearm without looking at it), skipped shaving (he couldn’t face that razor), and got dressed, finally pulling on his much loved leather jacket. The previous night was a bit of a haze, not that he wanted to think about it particularly: he felt no small amount of disgust at the scars on his arm. A large part of him did not want to go into work. He wanted to curl up into a ball and avoid the world. But it wasn’t an option, not really, so he steeled himself and tried to clear his mind, concentrating on what had to be the most important thing to him that day: catching King. He could pretend for a while that King was the solution and he was still numb enough that the prospect of facing an incandescent Gene Hunt didn’t really bother him. There was a case to solve.
A knock on the door jolted him out of his attempt at normality. He opened it with a frown and came face to face with a wide-eyed Annie.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!” she snapped.
“I’m sorry.” He meant to make it a bit more sincere than that but it slipped and fell on its face, coming out flat and emotionless.
“Sorry? I don’t think that covers it, Sam!” But she stopped at the look on his face and raised a hand to his cheek. “You look pale. Have you not been sleeping again?”
He shied away from her touch without meaning to and hurt flashed through her eyes. “Annie, I’m fine. Just dreams again, that’s all.”
“What’s going on in that head of yours, Sam? Please don’t tell me we’re going back to this. Please don’t tell me we’re going back to talk of the future,” she asked desperately.
She didn’t understand the irony of that little phrase and he didn’t have the strength to laugh about it. The concern was crystal-clear in her eyes and he should have felt bad. But instead all he felt was faint irritation. She didn’t have a clue what he’d left behind in 2006, didn’t have a clue what he’d done to get here. She’d probably section him if he told her.
So he shook his head, gave her what she wanted. “No, not back to the future. You know that’s all over now. Just feel a bit under the weather, that’s all. I’m fine, Annie, really.” A quick peck on the cheek, and he hoped she was consoled.
Apparently not. She stared at him sadly. “Don’t block me out Sam. You can still talk to me, you know.”
Can I, he felt like saying? Can I, when so much I’ve ever told you is insanity in your eyes? She never had believed him. Never could.
But that wasn’t fair, not when she had stuck by him in the face of everything. Maybe he did owe her an explanation. But he gazed into her eyes and saw the trust and respect there, and realised painfully that this latest little revelation of Ramsay and the fire would be the nail in their coffin. She could never know.
“I’m fine, honestly. Now let’s get to work before I incur the wrath of the dragon even more than I have done already.”
“What are you going to say to him? He’s fuming, Sam. Last night in the pub he came up with some very colourful threats.”
“What am I going to say?” he asked, like the question surprised him. “I’ll say what I’ve always said to him, Annie: exactly what’s on my mind.”
***
Gene hurled him into his office as soon as he walked into CID. The slap around his face was expected, the punch to his gut predictable, and Gene finally twisted his arm around his back, pushing him face first onto his desk so he could whisper into his DI’s ear.
“You better have something good for me, Tyler: a good reason or a good lead, I’m not a fussy man.”
“If you let me up so I can breathe I might be a bit more forthcoming…” Sam said faintly, bitter and sharp.
Gene let him go. Fury was written clearly in every line of his face and Sam winced, rolling his shoulder and avoiding his DCI’s flammable gaze.
“He’s been linked to cases before. Cases I worked on in Hyde.”
Gene’s jaw clenched. “And you didn’t tell me before because…?”
“I didn’t know. I was taken off the case for personal reasons before they linked it to King.”
“What personal reasons?”
“None of your business,” Sam said flatly.
Gene approached him with slow menace until there were mere millimetres of space between them. “I am so close to firing your sorry arse, Tyler,” he growled.
“DC Fletcher came to see me to tell me. King’s been linked to a string of crimes: murder, robbery, kidnapping and arson.” Sam’s voice faltered over that last word and he swallowed hard. “He was charged, but it never went to court. Not enough evidence.”
“Should have fitted the bastard up.”
“So,” Sam went on regardless, expressionless, emotionless, “he definitely has previous. Which means we should have a record. But we don’t. So someone in this stupid, careless, useless department has lost it!”
“Are you on some kind of suicide mission?” Gene asked disbelievingly. “Don’t you dare chuck shit at my department after yesterday!”
Then the anger came, and it was a bit of a surprise and a relief given the numbness of the night before, and it flared up behind Sam’s eyes and exploded. “No one else has access to the records!” Sam shouted, his voice rising to a crescendo.
Gene caught him by the collar. “You and your namby-pamby love for paperwork and you can’t even look for it properly because you’re too busy making eyes at that dippy plonk and…” He stopped, wide-eyed. “Oh shit.”
“What?” Sam asked carefully, always worried when Gene stopped mid-rant.
“No one else has access. But they do. They did.”
Gene strode out, Sam hot on his heels.
“What are you talking about?”
“They did have access. She had access.”
“You’re not suggesting what I think you are,” Sam said disbelievingly.
“You always were a sucker for a pretty face and a cute smile, weren’t you Tyler? Well maybe someone somewhere knows that.”
Sam hated it when Gene made sense. He hated it when his DCI pieced it all together and came up with an answer that fitted but was completely unjustified. Numbness all forgotten, he shook his head and glared. “You have nothing on her!”
“That’s where that incredibly useful police tool interrogation comes into play,” Gene said glibly.
“Fine, do what you want. You always bloody do!”
“Says you! You who had the nerve to walk out of my department on your own bloody agenda, yet again!” Gene growled. “We are not done talking, Tyler, I hope you know that.”
“Talking? Ah, I knew that there was a bit of Jerry Springer in there somewhere,” Sam quipped to the air in general.
“Who? You’re off your rocker, Tyler. And I think you slightly misinterpret my definition of talking. You might like declaring your feelings to the world like the little poof you are, but my idea of talking tends to involve the much more therapeutic use of fists!”
“Therapeutic?”
“That’s right. Therapy for me.”
“I’m trembling.”
Sarcasm is not the way to deal with an angry Gene Hunt. His DCI stopped dead in his rampage across CID and turned to face Sam, now beyond his usual level of rage and in some sort of quiet fury that spoke of the calm before a massive storm.
“You will be, Sammy-boy,” he whispered with slow menace.
Sam let it drop, biting his tongue and following. Absent-mindedly he raised a hand to rub at the bruise on his cheek, but the hand fell away when he realised that it hurt. He was feeling pain as well as the anger. Okay, not positive emotions, but emotions nonetheless. He stared at the back of Gene Hunt and wondered how the hell that had come to be the case.
They found Sally talking to Chris, the two of them smiling and happy. Sam winced as Gene shoved Chris out of the way to bear down on the poor girl.
“You and me need a word, love. Fancy accompanying me to Lost and Found?”
Sally was staring up at him with wide frightened eyes, but Sam was well-trained enough to see that there wasn’t surprise there, exactly, just a sort of resignation. So Hunt was right. She knew something. Even bloody better. This was what they wanted, the possibility of a lead on the elusive King, but did it have to be her? Another innocent dragged down by the mess that is this world?
Chris on the other hand was bewildered, wavering between demanding answers and the awareness that challenging Gene was never a good move.
He settled on a soft and inquiring, “Guv?”
“Shut it, you,” Gene snapped, catching the poor girl by the arm and dragging her down the corridor. Sam followed a few steps behind, shaking his head in warning to Chris, who had started after them. He had an odd moment where he wanted to turn back and comfort the devastated lad, noting somewhat detachedly that he really did feel compassion for some of the people in this place, real and true affection.
He shook that thought away before it had a chance to mess him up even more.
Work. Concentrate on work.
Sally sat stiffly in the chair in Lost and Found. She wouldn’t take much persuading, Sam observed with the calculating eyes of a detective. He sat in a chair opposite her, arms folded and silent: sulking, an accusing Gene had muttered as he passed Sam’s chair. Gene wouldn’t sit next to Sam and paced up and down behind Sally, smoking and questioning her with a deceptively casual manner.
“So, love, let’s have a little chat about cleaning. You could give Tyler here a few tips: he would be such a good little housewife.”
Sally said nothing. Sam said nothing.
Gene rolled his eyes and carried on.
“You cleaned the collator’s den, correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“But you touched none of the files.”
“No sir.”
“Now are you sure of that, my love, ‘cause I don’t half hate people who lie. Plays havoc with my blood pressure.”
“Why would I touch the files, sir?”
“Why indeed.”
The fist slammed into the table making her jump in her seat. Sam didn’t bat an eyelid, emanating disapproval through posture alone.
“Why’d you nick the file for him, Sally? Old friend? He slip you a nice wad of cash? You boffing him?”
“I don’t know who you mean or what file you’re talking about.”
There was a waver in her voice: Gene would make her crack in no time.
“He told you to land a nice cushy cleaning job, get into the collator’s den, nick any evidence of his previous and take it to him. And while you were at it, bet you heard us talking and slipped him Malone’s name!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she said desperately.
Gene ground his cigarette out just in front of her and leant very close to her ear. “You know he killed Malone, don’t you? How does it feel to have second hand blood on your hands?”
She was shaking slightly, pain flashing across her expression. But she said nothing.
Gene growled and withdrew, kicking over the nearest chair in impatience. “You better start giving me something love! There’s only so much slack I’m willing to cut you!”
She burst into tears, her face buried in her hands. Sam released a breath he didn’t know he was holding and slid his fingers over the table to touch her arm.
“Talk to me, Sally. We’re not interested in banging up girls like you. All we want is a bit of help to put King away before he kills again. You don’t want him to kill again, do you love?”
The soothing voice did the trick and she raised her tear-stained face to him, fear in her eyes.
He heard Gene sigh in resignation behind him. “Oh here we go. That’s right, get your bleeding fairy godmother wings out.”
“Why’d you do it, Sally?” Sam asked gently, ignoring Gene.
Sally shook her head slowly, brushing ears away with the back of her hand. “I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?” Gene snapped.
Anger lit up her eyes and she glared at the DCI. “Would you do it? After what he did to Mr Malone?”
“We can protect you.”
She bit out a laugh, a bitter laugh that made Sam frown. The girl was tougher then she let on. “Maybe, DI Tyler. Who says it’s me who needs protecting, though?”
Sam arched an eyebrow questioningly but she was not forthcoming, her expression set and the tears brushed hastily away.
“What do you want from me?”
“A formal ID. A witness statement that says he told you to retrieve the file and give Malone’s name.”
“I can’t.”
Gene started forward but Sam held out a hand, pausing him. “We need you to help us. King is a murderer, Sally. Whatever he’s told you, promised you, threatened you with: it’s just lies.”
“How do you know?”
“Because men like King don’t keep their word, Sally.”
“And men like you do?”
“Yes,” Sam replied simply.
She looked at him, teetering on the edge of trust and confession. Sam decided to play his final card.
“What about Chris, Sally? He’ll find out that you were involved. Now do you want to have to tell him that you were too frightened to stand up to King, or do you want to tell him that you trust him and give yourself the chance to salvage something between the two of you?”
That wasn’t fair, really. It was underhand and Sam knew it, but it got a response out of the girl and she swallowed visibly.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Good lass,” Gene said, clapping his hands together and striding from the room. “Tyler, a word.”
They walked to Gene’s office, passing Chris on the way. A jerk of Gene’s head indicated to Chris that he was okay to talk to the girl, and the young DC dashed off.
“Shall we pull him in, then Sammy-boy?”
“You’ve still got nothing on him that’s not circumstantial.”
“I’ve got enough leverage to give him a little push, Tyler, and that’s all I need.”
“Bring him in and he’ll know Sally talked, but we’ll not have enough to charge him and he’ll walk free and her life will be in danger!”
“Fine, you want to preserve her cover, that’s good with me.”
“It is?”
“Compromise, Tyler.”
Sam sighed. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“Oh I think you are. Future of policing, n’all.”
***
They sat in Gene’s office as he outlined the plan to Sally, with Sam and Chris listening edgily in the background.
“Do it and I won’t charge you,” Gene said finally.
“Guv, I don’t think it’s fair that you’re putting her in this position,” Chris said his voice stilted with the battle between his desire to protect Sally and fear of his guv. “She could get hurt.”
“You’re little girlfriend has been a little fly on my wall, Chris. Now she’s flown straight into my web, so I don’t think she has a say in it, do you!”
“You should write poetry, guv, the metaphors you come out with…” Sam commented.
“Shut it!” Gene snapped to him without turning from Chris. “You want to protest Chris, you tell me how to catch King.”
“I don’t know, guv.”
“Right. So shut your mouth.”
Chris swallowed hard and walked out. The door slammed behind him.
“That wasn’t fair, Gene.”
“Did I ask you, Gladys?”
Sam shook his head in disgust and followed Chris into the corridor. The young DC was leaning against the wall smoking. They both stood there for a while in silence, Sam waiting for Chris to make the first move.
“You must think I’m stupid boss, for trusting her,” he said finally.
“Chris you…” Sam stopped, his desire to tell the man how naïve he’d been failing rapidly as he remembered Joni, flashed back to his blindness in the case involving Maya’s mum, and sighed. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last,” he said softly, echoing the sentiments Gene had once given him.
Chris nodded his gratitude, leaning his head back against the wall. “She’s gonna do it, I know she will. You won’t let her get hurt, will you boss? She’s terrified of King.”
“I’ll do everything that’s within my power.”
“Cheers boss.”
Gene and Sally came out, and by Gene’s grin the girl has surrendered. She was tight-lipped and pale, but looked resolved.
“It’s been a long day, Chris. Go home. We’ll set up the operation tomorrow,” Gene said shortly. Sam couldn’t quite decide whether that was Gene’s version of an apology to the DC. Whatever the case, Chris gave a quick smile and led Sally out.
Sam glanced at the clock and went to his desk to grab his jacket. He shrugged the leather on. “I’ll see you tomorrow, guv.”
But Gene was standing stock-still, hands in his pockets. “Did I say you could leave, Tyler?”
Sam halted, looking at the DCI. “I’m sorry, do I need a permission slip these days? I’ve never needed your say-so before.”
Gene conceded that point with a tilt of his head. Slowly he sauntered over to Sam until they were face to face, the desk the only thing between them.
“You’re staying right there. It’s just about time that you gave me a sodding explanation.”
Title: Follow the yellow brick road (Part Three of what seems to be more than expected!)
Rating: Red Cortina to be safe, but it's not that bad. WARNING: this does contain self-harm, so if that upsets you, don't read!
Pairings: Sam/Annie, Sam/Gene
Spoilers: The whole show, I think! 2.02, 2.07 and 2.08 are the important ones.
Summary: Sam's identity crisis is going too far, while Gene realises that it's often the ones you least suspect.
Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, and once again a few bits of dialogue have been nicked from the show
A/N: Thanks to everybody who's still reading, I hope this part doesn't disappoint. And yes, I will come up with a conclusion eventually... All reviews critical or otherwise are gratefully received.
It’s funny, the things we choose to feel guilty about. Sam sat in the local archives trawling through newspaper scraps on a table lit by a single lamp. Hours had passed since he’d run out of CID. He knew Annie would be looking for him, worried, concerned, feeling blocked out, and he couldn’t quite feel guilty. He knew Gene would be furious, and he felt a pang of something, but it wasn’t guilt; Gene would understand, he would forgive him, just as he had always done. And here he was staring at the black words of a past he didn’t even have any memory of and he was feeling guilty as sin.
Yet it was an odd kind of guilt, a numb and detached guilt. His eyes swept over the headlines. Here they were: headlines of the past, documentations of all of King’s last crimes.
The rabbit down the rabbit hole. A young woman, buried alive.
The tea party. Two men, poisoned.
The Cheshire Cat. The disappearance of a valuable witness, the only clue left behind a piece of paper with a crudely drawn smile.
The Queen of Hearts. DI Ramsay’s wife, kidnapped and held hostage by King.
Wonderland up in flames. King’s house, where they tried to rescue her, up in flames. DI Ramsay inside.
King was a sick, sick man.
And what was worse was that underneath the turmoil of emotions where Sam’s detective mind was trying to force its way through his consciousness, he didn’t understand the cases. Why the childhood stories? What the hell had King been aiming for? The police had tried to draw links between the victims. The young woman had apparently had no links to King. The two men were known criminals, but had nothing seemingly to do with King. The witness was obviously killed to cover any tracks. But Ramsay and his wife? Ramsay had claimed to have never met King before in his life. And there was not a scrap of evidence to link King to the crimes that wasn’t circumstantial and utterly useless.
Ramsay’s wife had apparently miraculously survived the fire. As had he. The report on the arson quoted Morgan saying that his officer Sam Williams was unable to comment, but was for the most part uninjured.
Of course, Sam had no proof that this was what Morgan had referred to when he had told Sam that he had let a colleague die, but if the seventies had taught him anything it was to trust his gut instinct, and his gut instinct was currently screaming.
This tore apart everything. Because now he didn’t know who he was: Sam Tyler, the squeaky clean moral compass of 2007, the whirlwind of positive change in 1973 CID; or Sam Williams, the backstabbing bastard who let his colleague burn to death, the man set up to bring down Gene Hunt, the ally of DCI Frank Morgan.
He walked home in a kind of daze, a bottle of whiskey swinging in his hand. A good part of the bottle drained away that night as he stared at his blank TV screen, wondering when the Test Card girl was going to come and taunt him. Wondering if she was going to come and taunt him. He hadn’t been alone in his flat yet, hadn’t dared: he’d had Annie in here one night, Gene in the other. And now he was here with a tangled conscience craving any kind of comfort, even from the Test Card girl, but he was utterly alone. He felt numb. As numb as he had done in that meeting as clipped voices from 2007 had washed over him. It wasn’t simple anymore.
And then he realised that it hadn’t really been simple then. He had hurled himself off of that building with only one thought in mind: that it was the right thing to do. He had figured it would all be fine in 1973, because how could it not be? He had made a final decision, taken the definitive step. For a while he could believe that, with forgiveness falling into his lap and Annie’s lips on his, but it was never going to be that easy because Morgan had broken his mind apart when he told him he had a different life. That he wasn’t who he thought he was. Now he was lost.
That was the crux of it. None of it made any sense, and Sam was a rational man, and could only suspend disbelief for a while before his mind would demand explanation. He’d pretended for a while that he’d resolved it all when he chose 1973, chose his friends and making a difference and living and Gene, but now his mind was louder than his heart and it wanted answers. Answers he did not have. Now he didn’t know dream from reality as strongly as before, perhaps more so, couldn’t bear to be inside his own mind for fear that it was playing tricks. He thought he had solved that conundrum when he jumped: two possible realities, choose one and it’ll be okay. Apart from the fact that one of the realities is offering two possible explanations, two possible identities and he can’t prove one from the other, only via his memories and god knows they aren’t reliable. It’s not a question of real or unreal. He decided what he wanted to be real when his feet left the building. The question’s changed, and now it’s Tyler or Williams, and none of it makes any bloody sense.
Sam could really have done with crying. He didn’t feel tears though. He could have done with hitting something, but he didn’t know what to be angry about. He could have done with getting drunk, but the whiskey was sliding down and doing nothing but fuzz the edges. And he saw in his mind’s eye a memory, or a premonition, or a bloody trick of the mind, he didn’t know, of blood oozing from his thumb. That’s how he had known in 2007. So that’s how he’d know here. Faintly in the back of his mind he knew that this was not a solution, but it didn’t seem wrong to want to know just how bad it had got. So he walked over to his cabinet, took out his razor, and closed his eyes before sliding it over the pad of skin with shaking hands.
Nothing.
He stared at the blood leaking from the cut in confusion. No pain, nothing. So, what, he didn’t feel here either? That wasn’t fair. That couldn’t be true. That meant that he simply wasn’t living at all. The living dead.
And desperately he rolled up his sleeve, exposing the smooth white forearm and drew neat shallow lines there as well, watching the crimson spring up as though he was observing it from afar.
Nothing.
He had never felt so empty in his whole life. He didn’t know who the hell he was. Sam dropped the razor as though burned and it clattered to the floor.
The whiskey beckoned and he slugged at the bottle until exhaustion overtook him and Sam walked like a zombie into bed. He lay looking at the ceiling for hours, his marked and still bloodied forearm turned up exposed on top of the covers, running slow trails of crimson down to stain the bedsheets. Finally the exhaustion and whiskey took their toll and he fell asleep, newspaper cuttings scattered around him.
***
There’s something oddly comforting about routine in the face of extreme shock. It offers something to cling to, a shred of normality. So Sam got out of bed that morning, drank half a cup of coffee (he couldn’t manage the rest), showered (washing the dried blood from his abused forearm without looking at it), skipped shaving (he couldn’t face that razor), and got dressed, finally pulling on his much loved leather jacket. The previous night was a bit of a haze, not that he wanted to think about it particularly: he felt no small amount of disgust at the scars on his arm. A large part of him did not want to go into work. He wanted to curl up into a ball and avoid the world. But it wasn’t an option, not really, so he steeled himself and tried to clear his mind, concentrating on what had to be the most important thing to him that day: catching King. He could pretend for a while that King was the solution and he was still numb enough that the prospect of facing an incandescent Gene Hunt didn’t really bother him. There was a case to solve.
A knock on the door jolted him out of his attempt at normality. He opened it with a frown and came face to face with a wide-eyed Annie.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!” she snapped.
“I’m sorry.” He meant to make it a bit more sincere than that but it slipped and fell on its face, coming out flat and emotionless.
“Sorry? I don’t think that covers it, Sam!” But she stopped at the look on his face and raised a hand to his cheek. “You look pale. Have you not been sleeping again?”
He shied away from her touch without meaning to and hurt flashed through her eyes. “Annie, I’m fine. Just dreams again, that’s all.”
“What’s going on in that head of yours, Sam? Please don’t tell me we’re going back to this. Please don’t tell me we’re going back to talk of the future,” she asked desperately.
She didn’t understand the irony of that little phrase and he didn’t have the strength to laugh about it. The concern was crystal-clear in her eyes and he should have felt bad. But instead all he felt was faint irritation. She didn’t have a clue what he’d left behind in 2006, didn’t have a clue what he’d done to get here. She’d probably section him if he told her.
So he shook his head, gave her what she wanted. “No, not back to the future. You know that’s all over now. Just feel a bit under the weather, that’s all. I’m fine, Annie, really.” A quick peck on the cheek, and he hoped she was consoled.
Apparently not. She stared at him sadly. “Don’t block me out Sam. You can still talk to me, you know.”
Can I, he felt like saying? Can I, when so much I’ve ever told you is insanity in your eyes? She never had believed him. Never could.
But that wasn’t fair, not when she had stuck by him in the face of everything. Maybe he did owe her an explanation. But he gazed into her eyes and saw the trust and respect there, and realised painfully that this latest little revelation of Ramsay and the fire would be the nail in their coffin. She could never know.
“I’m fine, honestly. Now let’s get to work before I incur the wrath of the dragon even more than I have done already.”
“What are you going to say to him? He’s fuming, Sam. Last night in the pub he came up with some very colourful threats.”
“What am I going to say?” he asked, like the question surprised him. “I’ll say what I’ve always said to him, Annie: exactly what’s on my mind.”
***
Gene hurled him into his office as soon as he walked into CID. The slap around his face was expected, the punch to his gut predictable, and Gene finally twisted his arm around his back, pushing him face first onto his desk so he could whisper into his DI’s ear.
“You better have something good for me, Tyler: a good reason or a good lead, I’m not a fussy man.”
“If you let me up so I can breathe I might be a bit more forthcoming…” Sam said faintly, bitter and sharp.
Gene let him go. Fury was written clearly in every line of his face and Sam winced, rolling his shoulder and avoiding his DCI’s flammable gaze.
“He’s been linked to cases before. Cases I worked on in Hyde.”
Gene’s jaw clenched. “And you didn’t tell me before because…?”
“I didn’t know. I was taken off the case for personal reasons before they linked it to King.”
“What personal reasons?”
“None of your business,” Sam said flatly.
Gene approached him with slow menace until there were mere millimetres of space between them. “I am so close to firing your sorry arse, Tyler,” he growled.
“DC Fletcher came to see me to tell me. King’s been linked to a string of crimes: murder, robbery, kidnapping and arson.” Sam’s voice faltered over that last word and he swallowed hard. “He was charged, but it never went to court. Not enough evidence.”
“Should have fitted the bastard up.”
“So,” Sam went on regardless, expressionless, emotionless, “he definitely has previous. Which means we should have a record. But we don’t. So someone in this stupid, careless, useless department has lost it!”
“Are you on some kind of suicide mission?” Gene asked disbelievingly. “Don’t you dare chuck shit at my department after yesterday!”
Then the anger came, and it was a bit of a surprise and a relief given the numbness of the night before, and it flared up behind Sam’s eyes and exploded. “No one else has access to the records!” Sam shouted, his voice rising to a crescendo.
Gene caught him by the collar. “You and your namby-pamby love for paperwork and you can’t even look for it properly because you’re too busy making eyes at that dippy plonk and…” He stopped, wide-eyed. “Oh shit.”
“What?” Sam asked carefully, always worried when Gene stopped mid-rant.
“No one else has access. But they do. They did.”
Gene strode out, Sam hot on his heels.
“What are you talking about?”
“They did have access. She had access.”
“You’re not suggesting what I think you are,” Sam said disbelievingly.
“You always were a sucker for a pretty face and a cute smile, weren’t you Tyler? Well maybe someone somewhere knows that.”
Sam hated it when Gene made sense. He hated it when his DCI pieced it all together and came up with an answer that fitted but was completely unjustified. Numbness all forgotten, he shook his head and glared. “You have nothing on her!”
“That’s where that incredibly useful police tool interrogation comes into play,” Gene said glibly.
“Fine, do what you want. You always bloody do!”
“Says you! You who had the nerve to walk out of my department on your own bloody agenda, yet again!” Gene growled. “We are not done talking, Tyler, I hope you know that.”
“Talking? Ah, I knew that there was a bit of Jerry Springer in there somewhere,” Sam quipped to the air in general.
“Who? You’re off your rocker, Tyler. And I think you slightly misinterpret my definition of talking. You might like declaring your feelings to the world like the little poof you are, but my idea of talking tends to involve the much more therapeutic use of fists!”
“Therapeutic?”
“That’s right. Therapy for me.”
“I’m trembling.”
Sarcasm is not the way to deal with an angry Gene Hunt. His DCI stopped dead in his rampage across CID and turned to face Sam, now beyond his usual level of rage and in some sort of quiet fury that spoke of the calm before a massive storm.
“You will be, Sammy-boy,” he whispered with slow menace.
Sam let it drop, biting his tongue and following. Absent-mindedly he raised a hand to rub at the bruise on his cheek, but the hand fell away when he realised that it hurt. He was feeling pain as well as the anger. Okay, not positive emotions, but emotions nonetheless. He stared at the back of Gene Hunt and wondered how the hell that had come to be the case.
They found Sally talking to Chris, the two of them smiling and happy. Sam winced as Gene shoved Chris out of the way to bear down on the poor girl.
“You and me need a word, love. Fancy accompanying me to Lost and Found?”
Sally was staring up at him with wide frightened eyes, but Sam was well-trained enough to see that there wasn’t surprise there, exactly, just a sort of resignation. So Hunt was right. She knew something. Even bloody better. This was what they wanted, the possibility of a lead on the elusive King, but did it have to be her? Another innocent dragged down by the mess that is this world?
Chris on the other hand was bewildered, wavering between demanding answers and the awareness that challenging Gene was never a good move.
He settled on a soft and inquiring, “Guv?”
“Shut it, you,” Gene snapped, catching the poor girl by the arm and dragging her down the corridor. Sam followed a few steps behind, shaking his head in warning to Chris, who had started after them. He had an odd moment where he wanted to turn back and comfort the devastated lad, noting somewhat detachedly that he really did feel compassion for some of the people in this place, real and true affection.
He shook that thought away before it had a chance to mess him up even more.
Work. Concentrate on work.
Sally sat stiffly in the chair in Lost and Found. She wouldn’t take much persuading, Sam observed with the calculating eyes of a detective. He sat in a chair opposite her, arms folded and silent: sulking, an accusing Gene had muttered as he passed Sam’s chair. Gene wouldn’t sit next to Sam and paced up and down behind Sally, smoking and questioning her with a deceptively casual manner.
“So, love, let’s have a little chat about cleaning. You could give Tyler here a few tips: he would be such a good little housewife.”
Sally said nothing. Sam said nothing.
Gene rolled his eyes and carried on.
“You cleaned the collator’s den, correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“But you touched none of the files.”
“No sir.”
“Now are you sure of that, my love, ‘cause I don’t half hate people who lie. Plays havoc with my blood pressure.”
“Why would I touch the files, sir?”
“Why indeed.”
The fist slammed into the table making her jump in her seat. Sam didn’t bat an eyelid, emanating disapproval through posture alone.
“Why’d you nick the file for him, Sally? Old friend? He slip you a nice wad of cash? You boffing him?”
“I don’t know who you mean or what file you’re talking about.”
There was a waver in her voice: Gene would make her crack in no time.
“He told you to land a nice cushy cleaning job, get into the collator’s den, nick any evidence of his previous and take it to him. And while you were at it, bet you heard us talking and slipped him Malone’s name!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she said desperately.
Gene ground his cigarette out just in front of her and leant very close to her ear. “You know he killed Malone, don’t you? How does it feel to have second hand blood on your hands?”
She was shaking slightly, pain flashing across her expression. But she said nothing.
Gene growled and withdrew, kicking over the nearest chair in impatience. “You better start giving me something love! There’s only so much slack I’m willing to cut you!”
She burst into tears, her face buried in her hands. Sam released a breath he didn’t know he was holding and slid his fingers over the table to touch her arm.
“Talk to me, Sally. We’re not interested in banging up girls like you. All we want is a bit of help to put King away before he kills again. You don’t want him to kill again, do you love?”
The soothing voice did the trick and she raised her tear-stained face to him, fear in her eyes.
He heard Gene sigh in resignation behind him. “Oh here we go. That’s right, get your bleeding fairy godmother wings out.”
“Why’d you do it, Sally?” Sam asked gently, ignoring Gene.
Sally shook her head slowly, brushing ears away with the back of her hand. “I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?” Gene snapped.
Anger lit up her eyes and she glared at the DCI. “Would you do it? After what he did to Mr Malone?”
“We can protect you.”
She bit out a laugh, a bitter laugh that made Sam frown. The girl was tougher then she let on. “Maybe, DI Tyler. Who says it’s me who needs protecting, though?”
Sam arched an eyebrow questioningly but she was not forthcoming, her expression set and the tears brushed hastily away.
“What do you want from me?”
“A formal ID. A witness statement that says he told you to retrieve the file and give Malone’s name.”
“I can’t.”
Gene started forward but Sam held out a hand, pausing him. “We need you to help us. King is a murderer, Sally. Whatever he’s told you, promised you, threatened you with: it’s just lies.”
“How do you know?”
“Because men like King don’t keep their word, Sally.”
“And men like you do?”
“Yes,” Sam replied simply.
She looked at him, teetering on the edge of trust and confession. Sam decided to play his final card.
“What about Chris, Sally? He’ll find out that you were involved. Now do you want to have to tell him that you were too frightened to stand up to King, or do you want to tell him that you trust him and give yourself the chance to salvage something between the two of you?”
That wasn’t fair, really. It was underhand and Sam knew it, but it got a response out of the girl and she swallowed visibly.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Good lass,” Gene said, clapping his hands together and striding from the room. “Tyler, a word.”
They walked to Gene’s office, passing Chris on the way. A jerk of Gene’s head indicated to Chris that he was okay to talk to the girl, and the young DC dashed off.
“Shall we pull him in, then Sammy-boy?”
“You’ve still got nothing on him that’s not circumstantial.”
“I’ve got enough leverage to give him a little push, Tyler, and that’s all I need.”
“Bring him in and he’ll know Sally talked, but we’ll not have enough to charge him and he’ll walk free and her life will be in danger!”
“Fine, you want to preserve her cover, that’s good with me.”
“It is?”
“Compromise, Tyler.”
Sam sighed. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“Oh I think you are. Future of policing, n’all.”
***
They sat in Gene’s office as he outlined the plan to Sally, with Sam and Chris listening edgily in the background.
“Do it and I won’t charge you,” Gene said finally.
“Guv, I don’t think it’s fair that you’re putting her in this position,” Chris said his voice stilted with the battle between his desire to protect Sally and fear of his guv. “She could get hurt.”
“You’re little girlfriend has been a little fly on my wall, Chris. Now she’s flown straight into my web, so I don’t think she has a say in it, do you!”
“You should write poetry, guv, the metaphors you come out with…” Sam commented.
“Shut it!” Gene snapped to him without turning from Chris. “You want to protest Chris, you tell me how to catch King.”
“I don’t know, guv.”
“Right. So shut your mouth.”
Chris swallowed hard and walked out. The door slammed behind him.
“That wasn’t fair, Gene.”
“Did I ask you, Gladys?”
Sam shook his head in disgust and followed Chris into the corridor. The young DC was leaning against the wall smoking. They both stood there for a while in silence, Sam waiting for Chris to make the first move.
“You must think I’m stupid boss, for trusting her,” he said finally.
“Chris you…” Sam stopped, his desire to tell the man how naïve he’d been failing rapidly as he remembered Joni, flashed back to his blindness in the case involving Maya’s mum, and sighed. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last,” he said softly, echoing the sentiments Gene had once given him.
Chris nodded his gratitude, leaning his head back against the wall. “She’s gonna do it, I know she will. You won’t let her get hurt, will you boss? She’s terrified of King.”
“I’ll do everything that’s within my power.”
“Cheers boss.”
Gene and Sally came out, and by Gene’s grin the girl has surrendered. She was tight-lipped and pale, but looked resolved.
“It’s been a long day, Chris. Go home. We’ll set up the operation tomorrow,” Gene said shortly. Sam couldn’t quite decide whether that was Gene’s version of an apology to the DC. Whatever the case, Chris gave a quick smile and led Sally out.
Sam glanced at the clock and went to his desk to grab his jacket. He shrugged the leather on. “I’ll see you tomorrow, guv.”
But Gene was standing stock-still, hands in his pockets. “Did I say you could leave, Tyler?”
Sam halted, looking at the DCI. “I’m sorry, do I need a permission slip these days? I’ve never needed your say-so before.”
Gene conceded that point with a tilt of his head. Slowly he sauntered over to Sam until they were face to face, the desk the only thing between them.
“You’re staying right there. It’s just about time that you gave me a sodding explanation.”