Family Ties - Pt 1
Sam Tyler smiled to himself. It was quiet in the graveyard, calm, still… peaceful. He’d never minded them, even as a child, feeling comforted by the warm blanket of silence that surrounded him, rather than being spooked like the other children. He supposed it was because of something his mother had told him; back when he was not much younger than his four year old self was now.
“This isn’t a bad place, Sammy.” Hs mum had crouched down beside him, smiling though her eyes were bright with tears. “You see, when you’re old or when it’s your time…well you die and you go to heaven. And that’s a good thing isn’t it Sammy?” She had taken his hand. “So no tears, there’s a good boy. And if you want to speak to granddad again, well we’ll just come here and talk to him.”
“Will he hear us?” Four year old Sam had spoken gravely. “Will he answer?”
“Of course he will,” She had raised a hand to his face, stroking his cheek gently. “You might not hear him with these,” she tugged gently at his ear, “but you’ll feel him…in here,” she rested her hand on his chest. “Granddad’s in a better place now…and that’s a good thing…believe me.”
And Sam had, trusting his mother implicitly as only a four year old could. It had been his grandfather’s funeral, he realised now, and his mother had had to cope with the death of her father, and the subsequent funeral arrangements on her own as his dad had been away “on the road” as his mother usually put it.
Sam frowned slightly. He remembered coming here, after his dad had disappeared, searching the headstones for his father’s name, desperate to find it in the misled hope that at least then he’d know where he was, that it would solve the mystery of his disappearance and that there was somewhere he could come if he needed to talk...but of course he never had and eventually he’d been forced to accept the conclusion that his dad was never coming back and that, worst of all, he’d never even got to say goodbye.
A child’s laugh distracted him and he shrugged off his reverie to peer around the corner of an old wooden hut. He could see the back of his four year old self as he bent down to the grass, picking dandelions with wild abandon from beneath the hedgerows whilst his mum, younger in age than himself, replaced dead flowers with fresh ones over by one of the headstones. He had known she would be here, on the anniversary of her father’s death, and he had wanted - no needed - to see her, even if only to persuade himself that she was alright - that she was coping with her husband’s disappearance from an adult’s, rather than a four year old’s perspective.
It had taken him a couple of weeks to finally pluck up the courage to visit the house again after the “incident,” as he liked to call it, but the house had been locked and empty, it’s occupants moved already. Sam had spent a sleepless month searching both the streets of Manchester and his memory for some clue as to where they might have moved to…but both searches had proved fruitless - until today, when the date had sparked an old recollection and he’d known in an instant where he could find them. Still, he had held back, unsure of their reception of him and definitely unsure about the prospect of meeting with his four year old self, so he had sought concealment behind the gravedigger’s hut, content enough to watch whilst staying hidden in the shadows.
“Come on, Sammy,” his mum stood up, shaking the loose grass and soil from her skirt. “Time to go.” Sam smiled to himself as he watched the child run to his mother, his arms outstretched, offering her the handful of dandelions. She laughed, accepting the weeds as if they were a bouquet of the finest flowers, pretending to take a deep breath and smell them whilst tousling his hair with her free hand. Her body blocked Sam’s view of his younger self but he shared the deep seated memory of joy as his four year old self glowed with pleasure.
“Now you have flowers too,” the child’s voice drifted over the light afternoon breeze. Sam swallowed a sudden lump in his throat as his mum hugged the child tightly, then they began to move away, their linked arms swinging high as they began to chant a child’s nursery rhyme. “Ring a ring a roses…a pocket full of posies…”
Sam smiled wistfully after them, his heart a mixture of turmoil - relief, that they seemed to be coping- anger that they had had to endure such sadness - joy that they still had each other….and loneliness - incredible loneliness- for adult Sam, 36 year old Sam who had no mother in this time to comfort him - no friends to understand his predicament, no lover to offer him solace…
He shook his head suddenly, determined not to feel sorry for himself. He did have family in this time and they were right in front of him if only he had the courage to speak to them. All he had to do was follow them out of the graveyard and make that first, awkward move. If they didn’t accept him…well then he’d lost nothing, but if they did - if they did… Grasping his courage with both hands, his mind made up, Sam turned to leave…..
He never saw what hit him. Something slammed into the side of his face with the force of a pile-driver and he felt himself slumping sideways, consciousness slipping away, helpless to do anything other than keep sliding, keep slipping, his hearing muffled and his vision dimming. His voice croaked something - a question perhaps - his head pounding a relentless rhythm, then another blow crashed down and, despite all his best efforts, oblivion claimed Sam Tyler completely.
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He awoke by degrees, his sense of smell returning first, then his hearing, then his eyesight and finally the feeling in his limbs. Something wasn’t right and, as rational thought returned slowly, he tugged at his arms, realising instantly that they were tied behind him. That sobered him up faster than cold water and he jerked his head up, taking in his surroundings.
He was inside the gravedigger’s hut, sat on a rickety chair, his hands fastened behind him - with his own cuffs from the feel of the cold steel around his wrists. The inside of the hut was sparse, containing nothing more than an old table and a couple of chairs, with a selection of digging implements in one corner and a cracked porcelain sink with a single tap at the other. He was alone, although he could hear movement outside the hut and as the door began to swing open, he quickly shut his eyes and feigned unconsciousness again, hoping to gain some clue as to his assailant without giving away the fact that he was awake.
His attacker entered the hut, closing the door behind him. He slid the bolt home with a definitive click, whistling aloud as he performed his task.
Sam froze, his mind screaming aloud as he recognised not only the tune, but the whistle itself. It couldn’t….oh dear god it couldn’t… All idea of pretence forgotten, Sam opened his eyes, raising his head to gaze directly at his assailant.
Vic Tyler stood before him, hands on his hips, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Well now,” he said, his jovial expression belying the seriousness of the situation. “This is a pretty pickle we’re in now, isn’t it?”
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Sam stared at his dad, shocked beyond words, a million thoughts all swirling around his head. Vic crossed his arms, staring down at him, waiting patiently until Sam had collected himself together sufficiently to blurt out. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question,” Vic’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why are you following my family, Sam?”
Sam shook his head “I’m…” he stopped suddenly, realising for the first time just how much his face hurt and how difficult it was to speak. He examined the corner of his mouth with his tongue and recognised the metallic taste of blood. “What did you hit me with?” Stupid question - stupid - but he still couldn’t think straight, still couldn’t believe that his dad was here, was talking to him now, had turned up out of the blue….
…had knocked him unconscious and tied him to a chair….
Sam shivered and pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He looked up instead and found Vic holding a spade, an almost apologetic look on his face. “I needed to get you in here,” a note of pleading had entered his voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt you…but…but I had to know….”
“Know what?” Sam frowned.
“Why you were here,” Vic fidgeted, holding the spade clumsily. “What you were doing watching my family, Sam…my family?” He lowered the spade. “What are you doing here?” His face was earnest.
Sam swallowed. “I came to see if they were alright,” he began, choosing his words with difficulty. “That they were coping okay after you…” he hesitated, “after you left them.”
“I left them,” Vic’s face flushed angrily, “because of you.”
“No!” Sam contradicted him immediately. “I asked you to stay,” he could feel the emotion welling up inside of him. “I begged you to stay.”
“But I couldn’t!” Vic began to pace, still holding the spade in his hand. “Not after you’d arrested me…not after you found out about the porno…”
“You could have stayed,” Sam pressed determinedly.
“In prison?” Vic shook his head, “We’ve had this conversation before, Sam, I had to leave.”
“So why come back?” Sam was surprised to hear the bitterness in his voice. After all, wasn’t he glad his father had returned?
“I had to make sure they were alright,” Vic’s voice betrayed his concern. “I…” he hesitated, “well, I never got to say goodbye,” he shrugged awkwardly. “You know how it was?”
Oh Sam knew alright - his mums words etched in his memory, overlaid with his own words - with adult Sam’s memory. The thought twisted his gut and his mouth pursed. “Is that why you’re here then…to say goodbye?” he had no memory of his father ever returning and that knowledge made him distrustful.
Vic stopped still, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why are you so concerned?” he asked. “What’s it to you?”
Sam blinked. “I…er….”
“Maybe you want me to say goodbye, eh?” Suddenly Vic didn’t look so awkward holding the spade. “Maybe you want me to go so you can keep sniffing round….”
“No!” Sam exclaimed.
“Is that why you’re here,” Vic demanded. “To offer comfort to my wife…” he hefted the spade a little higher.
“No…”
“To my son…”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Sam leaned forwards earnestly. “Da…” he caught himself in time, “Vic, listen to me…” as Vic brought the spade up menacingly, “I’m trying to help!”
“Trying to help yourself to my wife.” Vic’s face twisted and Sam had a sudden flashback to his dad’s face in the forest, back when he was four, watching him kick the policewoman over and over again. The next minute the handle to the spade jabbed his stomach hard and he doubled over, his breath whooshing out of him. Vic dropped the spade and stepped forwards, his hands gripping Sam’s shoulders, pushing him upright.
Sam’s head snapped back and he gasped, still recovering his breath. “Tell me the truth,” Vic snarled, “why are you here?”
“I told you…”
“The truth, Sam,” Vic accompanied his words with a stinging slap to the side of Sam’s face. “You’re hiding something from me, I can tell.”
Sam’s head rocked sideways, his eyes watering from more than just the force of the blow. He hadn’t forgotten that Vic had pulled a gun on him the last time they’d met, but this time he was hitting him - physically hurting him - and the thought bewildered and bemused him. He raised his head again. “Vic…”
Another slap. Sam screwed his face up, fighting his emotions. How could his dad treat him like this? He scanned Vic’s face, trying to find some semblance of the man he remembered as his father.
“I said the truth,” Vic raised his hand a third time.
Sam flinched. “Don’t!” he begged, a single tear threading its way down his cheek. “…please?” he whispered, looking for all the world like a lost child.
Vic stayed his hand, frowning, then lowered his hand to cup the side of Sam’s face gently. “There’s something familiar about you,” he murmured softly. “Something I just can’t put my finger on.”
Sam swallowed hard, desperately trying to hold his emotions in check. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he croaked.
“Try me?” Vic crouched down before Sam, all smiles now, his anger stowed away. “Everybody has secrets, Sam - I understand that more than anyone,” he stared at Sam earnestly “so you can tell me.”
Sam’s face portrayed his inner turmoil. “I can’t!” Tears slid down his cheeks unchecked. “I…..” he stopped, unable to continue.
“Hey, now,” Vic raised a hand and gently stroked the side of Sam’s face. “Shhh, there’s no need to cry,” Vic soothed him. His lips curved. “You know you look just like Sam,” he commented. “My Sam, I mean,” he corrected, smiling wistfully. “My Sammy…” He froze suddenly. “Oh my Lord!” He pushed himself upwards and away from Sam, scooting backwards.
“Vic?” Sam ventured warily.
Vic raked both hands through his hair, staring wildly at Sam. “That’s it!” his eyes were wide “That’s it! …and I never saw it until now.” He pointed at Sam. “You and him,” he shook his head, his eyes never leaving Sam’s. “Him and you!”
Sam took a breath. Could it be that his father had recognised him, despite the years, despite the bizarre circumstances surrounding his appearance in 1973?
Vic placed a trembling finger to his lips. “My Sammy - he’s always saying how he wants to be a policeman when he grows up…and you - you’re a copper.”
Sam nodded slowly, daring to hope.
“And the name - the same name….”
“Yes.”
Vic pointed at Sam, his arm shaking. “And you look so alike…” he pressed the heel of his hands to his head. “I can’t…I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Sam forced his voice to work, his heart pounding in his chest. His dad’s acceptance of his identity - his true identity - was suddenly the most important thing in the world to him.
“You’re saying its true then?” Vic slowly lowered his arms to his side, his face white with shock. Sam nodded. “That my little Sammy…” Vic took one step towards him, his appearance dazed
This was it, Sam thought triumphantly. His father had recognised him at last. He would free him now and the two of them would find some way to work things out, to find a solution where Sam did not have to lose his dad again.
“That my Sammy...” Vic’s arms reached out towards Sam, who closed his eyes in relief, a smile forming on his lips.
“…is your son!”
Sam’s world crashed around him.
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End of Pt 1