Would-have-been-Reverse!bang-fic: Music of the Night (mild Gene/Sam), Blue Cortina
Title: Music of the Night
Rating: Blue Cortina (for vampire attack)
Word Count: 4,333
Notes: For the reverse!mini!bang. I believe it was little_cello's illo? Anyhoo, it's a vampire fic. Graphic vampire attack. (And this is also sort of penance to Cello. Sorry.)
Summary: Sam has a very, very bad night.
-0-0-
He’d organised the press conference in the only way he knew how- swiftly, efficiently and with Gene breathing down his neck muttering darkly about “waste of bloody time” and “bastard vultures” and “ram a pencil up yer arse if you don’t stop being so bloody efficient”, whilst Ray and Chris sniggered in the background. Woolf and his sudden fall from grace was big news; this case had been a shockwave to the entire police force and everyone wanted a slice of it, no matter how much Gene protested that they were wasting his bloody time and yelled at Sam for trying to make him use prompt cards. And protested against Sam forcing him to smarten up for it as well; the fight to change his egg-stained tie had been of Biblical proportions. Sam reckoned they’d heard them in Brighton.
He’d tried to ready Gene for the questions, but Gene had retreated to his office to neck as much scotch as possible for the big event and he’d readied a very nervous Chris instead, who seemed most pre-occupied about what he should do if Brenda ‘Big’ Parsons came and stood too close to him. From what Sam could gather from his rather confused stuttering, they’d had encounters in the past that wouldn’t look out of place in Jurassic Park. Not that anyone had thought of Jurassic Park yet.
Ray had been his usual helpful self, doing his best to get toilet paper stuck to Sam’s shoe beforehand and being bawled out by Gene when it ended up soiling his patent leather loafers. That, at least, had been a little bit cathartic, as much as Sam hated taking pleasure from his enemies’ suffering. Schadenfreude just wasn’t attractive.
But whatever he’d done, it had to be enough now, because here he stood in front of the gathered eyes of Manchester and Salford, notes poised and courage just about screwed up and Gene one side of him scuffing the floor with his shoe, Chris the other side trying to crane at the back of the crowd to check whether his mum was there because “she rang twenty minutes ago an’ said she was on ‘er way, an’ she’d bring me lunch as well!” Gene’s constant glaring was completely bouncing off Chris, wired on nerves and sudden stardom as he was, but the constant fidgeting and whinging was only setting Sam’s nerves jangling further and they weren’t calmed when the sheer scale of what he’d organised became apparent. Nor with the arrival of one Jackie Queen, strutting straight up to the front with pursed blood-red lips and spiky stilettos and staring expectantly at the three coppers gathered there, as though she could squeeze the latest scoop out of them through telepathy. Even Gene looked a little perturbed at her arrival.
Deep breath, Sam. Concentrate: now or never. They’re just journalists. You’ll be fine.
“Er… ahem. Ladies and gents- excuse me-”
The babble continued, one or two people nearby turning to regard him with raised eyebrows. Chris fiddled nervously with his shirt cuff.
“Hello? Ladies an’ gents?”
“Ladies an’ gents? Christ on a bike, Tyler, you know ‘oo yer talkin’ to ‘ere?” Gene snorted from beside him, flicking the lapels of his camel-hair coat and straightening his back as though preparing for battle. “Cover yer ears, this lot need to be told where they are.”
More than a little worried, Sam lifted his hands to his ears-
“OI! COULD YOU LOT SHUT UP FOR ONE SECOND SO YOU CAN GET YER BLOODY SCOOP AN’ BUGGER OFF ‘OME BEFORE I ‘AVE EACH AN’ EVERY TOSSER ‘ERE ARRESTED AN’ THROWN IN THE CELLS WITH SOME LOVELY RABID NUTTERS LIABLE TO RIP YER ‘ORRIBLE UGLY MUGS OFF!”
There was instant silence.
“Guv, you have so, so much to learn about Public Relations,” Sam sighed as he slowly removed his hands from his ears and straightened his jacket. The very corner of Gene’s lip twitched.
“Er… ladies an’ gents, welcome to this conference about the activities of Superintendent Harcourt Woolf prior to ‘is arrest an’ subsequent dismissal from the Greater Manchester Police. I’m DI Sam Tyler, my colleague ‘ere is DCI Gene Hunt- don’t be too scared- an’ this is DC Chris Skelton.”
Chris gave possibly the goofiest grin known to mankind, thrusting his chest up in some absurd impersonation of a body-builder; someone’s camera shutter clicked through a dozen shots, someone from the left sniggering. Sam cleared his throat.
“Thank you, DC Skelton. As most of you will be aware, Detective Superintendent Harcourt ‘Harry’ Woolf was recently dismissed from the Greater Manchester Police followin’ investigations into certain activities datin’ back to the late sixties, or prior to ‘is promotion…”
This was better. This was familiar, the stating of facts one after the other, statements that nobody would question but every pencil scratched away noting down, facing his waiting audience with his head held high and his notes clasped in his hand. Gene beside him was a strangely protective force, Sam safe in the knowledge that he would have his own patented method of dealing with any troublemakers; Chris, on the other hand, was fidgeting and grinning every five seconds, constantly checking around for any sign of his mother until Sam finally cracked and asked DC Skelton if he would mind going back inside and asking DC Carling if he had any records for the night of Mr Woolf’s arrest; Chris, with a face as long as a Basset hound, loped off towards CID, leaving Sam free of distractions for the end of his speech and shepherding Gene back inside as soon as the first questions began to ring out, cameras clicking away dementedly in their wake as they all but ran back to CID, both of them sporting the slightly blurred and harrassed look of men who needed a bloody good drink.
“Pub in ten, Sammy-boy. Hacks don’t stand in front of the Cortina, or ‘aven’t since I ran over some bastard’s foot,” Gene called through as he swept through into his office, snatching his wallet up from the desk (left there after Ray had told him Graham Quick would be there) and barrelling straight back out of the double doors again the second it was in his hand. Sam, rolling his eyes, headed for his own desk, only glancing up as Chris loudly announced his arrival by tripping over his own feet and toppling onto Ray’s desk, smearing ham and cheese sandwiches over the small mountain of open files.
“I meant to do that,” came from somewhere amid the cackles of the other DCs. Sam rolled his eyes, swiping his jacket up, so bloody exhausted from all his organising and the hullabaloo of the conference itself that it took him until he’d put it on and was halfway to the door to realise that there was something stiff and crackling in his pocket that he didn’t remember putting there.
Dipping into his jacket, he pulled out a single folded piece of A4, unfolding it to the tidy, curly script of Jackie Queen.
I’ve some information you might find handy. Meet me behind the Railway Arms at seven on the dot. Totally kosher information, as your lovely DCI might say. Oh, and don’t bring him. I’ve no desire to end up in jail for stabbing him with my heels. Just tell him you’ve a personal errand to run. I promise you’ll find it useful.
Chuckling, Sam folded the paper up and slid it back into his jacket. At least Jackie wasn’t the sort to waste police time over some cock-and bull story… and it would mean a little time away from Gene. Although why he wasn’t considering that a particular bonus was a little worrying.
-0-0-
Sam spent half an hour chatting to Annie in the canteen before setting off for the Railway Arms, thanking her for taking care of tea and biscuits for the journalists and for saving Chris from Brenda Parsons when she’d found her way into the foyer. Thus Gene was already half-cut by the time Sam arrived at the pub, leaning on the bar with a half-philosophical, half-sozzled look on his face, head turned in the direction of Chris dancing to Blockbuster on the jukebox and a froth-moustached Ray laughing at him through his pint.
“You’re lookin’ jolly,” Sam remarked, sliding onto the barstool beside Gene’s and motioning to Nelson for a pint; Gene raised his eyebrows, turning slowly to regard his DI with half-closed eyes, glancing round at the pint the barman slid over to Sam and then back to his own half-full glass.
“I survived the hacks. Chris survived Big Brenda. You got to be yer usual picky-pain organised self an’ will probably be ‘avin’ wet dreams about all that paperwork for weeks. Nothing to be miserable about, Sammy-boy, unless you count the state of the world, but that can wait.”
Sam considered for a moment, lifting his pint to his lips, just missing Gene’s eyes tracking the beer’s progress, lingering where the glass touched soft pink lip.
“Woolf’s goin’ down, but the whole force’s de-stabilised because of it. We need a steady ‘and at the helm until it’s all blown over.”
“Thought you didn’t like my metaphors? An’ you better be talkin’ about me there. I dread to think ‘ow many whisky chasers I’ll be needin’ if you put yerself in charge.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You’ll do nicely, but it’ll be more work than ever for the both of us. Yer team will still be relyin’ on you an’ the higher-ups will be watchin’ the both of us, especially with you being Woolf’s former DI.”
“Christ, Tyler. I come ‘ere for a quiet drink an’ I end up with the gloomiest bloody Mystic Meg known to mankind. Go an’ be a thorn in someone else’s backside.” Gene lifted his head for just long enough as it took him to drain his pint glass, curling his lip as far as possible around the cool rim, knowing without looking that Sam’s eyes were on his mouth. Mam used to call him an attention-seeker for deliberately putting on tight clothes and flirting outrageously with women, but it all stemmed from the desire to be secure, to be in control and a leader, and with Sam he too often found himself wondering just who was the dominant male in their relationship.
“OK. Just goin’ to pop out back, y’know, for some air.”
“You do that, Tyler, an’ remember yer rubber johnny.” Gene fished in his pocket for a cigarette, sniggering to himself at Sam’s slap to his back and the overly-dramatic exit from the pub. Maybe he wasn’t the only attention-seeker around here.
Meanwhile, he had pints to drink, scotches to down and Chris to laugh at. He could be content for tonight.
-0-0-
Jackie had said seven on the dot, and seven on the dot she meant. Sam heard the first click of her heels on the damp pavement at three seconds to, the second at two seconds to, and saw the first blonde curl and silhouetted smile at exactly seven o’clock, walking towards him with a firm self-assurance he rarely saw in anyone that wasn’t his DCI. Jackie held no notebook or pen, only a thick-set red handbag that looked as though it could fracture someone’s skull, and Sam almost wondered whether he should’ve brought Gene with him, just for proper procedure. Oh, alright, to have someone bigger than him around.
“DI Tyler.” Jackie held a hand out formally, her long red nails catching the light from the pub. Sam took it carefully.
“Jackie. Next time you want me, come an’ find me rather than sneakin’ about in CID, or I’ll ‘ave no choice but to tell Gene an’ ‘e won’t be ‘appy.” He was going to leave that for after he’d got Jackie’s information, but he needed to assert some dominance over the situation. Jackie laughed, her long white teeth flashing.
“And the big bad wolf will come and find me. I’m sorry, I’m sure, DI Tyler.” Jackie perched on the low wall beside them, drawing a cigarette from her pocket with a graceful, scarlet-taloned hand, and Sam sighed to himself, drawing a step or two away. Bad enough when Gene stank of cigarettes, or smoked in his flat and left it awash with fumes.
Jackie simply smiled at him, lighting the fag and taking a long draw from it, closing her eyes as the nicotine hit home. She looked like a big cat sunning itself in the Mancunian evening gloom, cigarette held delicately between two claws.
“Alright, Jackie. This information of yours?”
“Yes. I think you’ll find it very interesting.”
Jackie slid a hand into her jacket and drew out an A4-sized brown envelope, ‘Tyler’ in elegant script on one side, holding it out to him like a goddess bestowing fire on her people. Sam began to wonder if the doctors in 2006 had done something to his medication and Jackie had been inexplicably exaggerated, and instantly tamped down the thought that maybe they could do the same to Gene. Preferably when they were both back at his flat. And alone.
“Er, thanks, Jackie. What’s the information about?”
He lifted his head-
She was on him, clawing at him, drawing blood from his neck and his face and his arms, and Sam cried out but she was smothering him, her taloned hands over his mouth and his eyes and dragging him down to the ground, pain spearing at his neck, blood gushing, warmth down his front and over his skin and her, her mouth, attached to his neck and sucking his lifeblood out of him and Christ but he needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else, and he was kicking feebly but there was no escape, she had him pinned like a fly, and he could do nothing but lie there and…
And she was gone, leaving him lying in the alleyway behind the Railway Arms, blood dribbling down his neck and the envelope clutched in his shaking fingers.
-0-0-
“GUV! Chris’s bloody been sick on me!”
“Was… was not…”
“Then what’s this, magic fairy dust? You bastard! This is me favourite shirt! GUV!”
Gene sighed heavily, draining the last of his pint and clunking the glass back down onto the bar, raising his eyebrows at Nelson. The publican grinned back at him, reaching round to pat his shoulder, comfortable in the knowledge that he was one of two men in the entire world who could touch Gene Hunt in anything other than anger and not have the living shit beaten out of them for it.
“Go on, Mistah Hunt. You bettah deal wid the boy.” And leaning in closer, dropping his Jamaican accent, he added: “An’ once you’ve taken ‘im ‘ome, find DI Tyler, would you? Strikes me ‘e needs a little loosenin’ up in Nelson’s special way.”
“I accept yer mission, Nelson, much as I wish I didn’t ‘ave to. You wouldn’t call Mrs Skelton an’ give ‘er an ‘eads-up, would you?”
“Course.” Nelson gave the bar one more perfunctory wipe and turned away, stashing his cloth beneath the bar; Gene, with another gusty sigh, heaved himself off his barstool and over to the corner booth where Chris had collapsed beside Ray, the both of them covered in vomit that looked (and smelled) exactly like Gwen’s toad in the hole and treacle tart.
“Go ‘ome, Ray. Nelson won’t want you in ‘is pub stinkin’ like that. Chris…” He bent to haul his paralytic DC off the seat, only for Chris to fling his arms around his neck and nestle into his chest, an even dopier grin than usual on his face.
“Guv… make me feel safe… ‘appy…”
Chris promptly found himself on his rear end on the floor, blinking confusedly around him as Gene took a quick step back and snatched his coat up from the coat rack by the door, flinging it round himself and yanking the door open before Nelson could so much as call out from behind the bar.
“Where’d the Guv go? I wanted a cuddle,” Chris moaned, reaching out towards Ray; Nelson groaned under his breath, slipping out from the bar and grabbing Chris up himself. Mr Hunt would find a couple more scotches mysteriously added to his tab tomorrow.
-0-0-
Coldness. Darkness. Pain, ripping through him, through his neck, through his very being until he shook and moaned, writhing in the dirt. Warmth dribbling down onto his collar, onto his chest, and more on his groin, down onto his thighs.
He needed Gene. Gene would know what to do.
Jackie Queen, her sharp fingernails, her sharp fangs, and oh God what had happened to him, there was blood on his fingers and he didn’t even know how it got there, everything hurt and he needed Gene and Gene wasn’t here, and he could feel Ray grabbing his throat and Annie’s tender hands on him and Gene’s hair brushing his cheek as he held him, the two men pressed against each other, hiding in a cold, dark place and feeling each other’s trembling.
He’d never experienced any of those things.
Sam screamed, one weak, desperate scream, and sank into darkness denser than any he’d ever experienced before.
-0-0-
Gene had drunk his way through a hip-flask and was just lighting his second fag, leaning on the Cortina’s bonnet and watching the world go by, smoke billowing off down the street as he dropped the butt and scrunched it out under the toe of his loafer. Bloody Chris, more trouble than he was worth, trying to bloody cuddle him when he was just trying to get the little sod home, but no doubt the boy would be embarrassed tomorrow; he could see Chris turning bright red and stuttering about files from the collator’s den already, chuckling to himself and stowing his cigarette packet away as he heaved himself up and turned to get into his car.
Had he not been a police officer, hardened and attuned by years of observation and hard graft, he might have missed it. But as it was, Gene was off and running before the scream had even died away, the Cortina door left ajar and the keys jingling in his hand as he bolted for the alleyway behind the Railway Arms.
“Police! Show… oof!”
Foot connecting with something soft, warm and immobile, Gene fell face-first onto the cold ground, half-sprawled over what he assumed to be some drunk. Muttering about people taking advantage of his good nature, he squirmed round in an attempt to haul himself off the slumped figure, his fingers brushing short hair and leather jacket and-
Gene froze.
Tyler.
“Sam? Sam, you there? Talk to me, Sammy-boy.” Gene took hold of the silhouette’s shoulders and shook, lifting Sam up until the dim street-lighting illuminated the gleam of sweat on his forehead, the feverish fluttering of his eyelashes, the blood on his neck. “Shit, Sam, no. Wake up, Tyler. Open yer eyes.”
Sam moaned, shuddering in Gene’s arms. His skin was so cold it sent goosebumps up Gene’s own back.
“Right. ‘Old on.”
Easing round onto his knees, Gene hauled Sam up onto his shoulder, struggling to his feet with Sam a dead weight hanging over him; wheezing slightly, pulse thudding in his throat, he staggered back towards the Cortina and somehow managed to manoeuvre himself to open the back door and slide Sam onto the rear seats, propping him up against the opposite door. With Sam now beneath the glaring sodium light, the two gaping holes in his neck were all too obvious, the thin red dribble from his lips, the wet fabric over his groin and the stained, shredded shirt; he looked like a corpse from one of the forbidden horror films Gene and Stu used to watch in their teens.
“Sammy? Sammy, you there? Come on, Tyler. Open yer eyes. Say something. Be yer usual picky-pain self an’ tell me not to drive when I’ve been drinkin’. Sam?”
Sam moaned softly, his head lolling to one side. Blood trickled down his neck, onto his pristine shirt, seeping through the flower-patterned fabric.
Gene slammed the door and bolted round to the driver’s seat, screeching away into the night just as a sozzled Chris emerged from the pub, too late to do anything more than wave at the retreating lights of the Cortina, glowing red in the darkness.
-0-0-
Hands on him. Firm and reassuring, and bolts of pain raking across his skull, brain throbbing as he moans and writhes. The heat, the agony, the breath jarring through his lungs, never enough to ease his craving for oxygen.
Gene. Gene’s voice, Gene’s touch. Warm bedclothes, a soft pillow. Gene’s smell.
Screams, so far away. His screams. The stench of coagulating blood, the sting of fangs in his neck, and Sam shrieks for his mother, for his father, for Gene, unaware of anything but pain and rage, and the radiating ache in the centre of his chest.
He closes his eyes and sleeps.
-0-0-
Gene jolted awake at the screaming coming from his bedroom.
“Tyler? Tyler, what’s ‘appenin’? Tyler!”
Leaping out of bed, he sprinted down the corridor, into the spare bedroom and over to his prone DI, slapping the light on to reveal the blood-stained sheets, the deathly paleness of Tyler’s skin, the two oozing holes in the side of Sam’s graceful neck. Christ, this looked bad. He should have called 999 the moment he found Tyler, and yet that impulse just felt wrong, as if Sam himself would be telling him not to do that.
Since when did he answer to Tyler?
“Gene…” Sam moaned, jerking his head from side to side, and Gene stepped slowly back, watching in silence. “Gene… hurts… she hurt me… stop ‘er hurtin’ people, Gene, you’re the DCI, you know what to do…”
“Yer safe, Sam. Honest. Yer in my ‘ouse, it’s three in the bloody morning, an’ whatever ‘appened to you, we’ll find the person responsible an’ lock ‘em up for a long time, understood? We won’t let ‘em off lightly. They attack my DI, they attack each an’ every one of us. Yer safe ‘ere.”
“I know,” Sam whispered, one hand reaching out for Gene’s, cold, clammy skin brushing Gene’s arm. “Yer ‘ere, it’s OK.”
“That’s right, Sammy boy. Gene Genie’s ‘ere now an’ no bastard’s gettin’ past me, yeah?” He lifted his hand to let Sam grasp it, determinedly ignoring the voice in the back of his head hissing poofter. “Just go to sleep.”
“Stay… stay ‘ere with me.” Sam’s head lolled towards his Guv, his eyes cracking open a fraction until they focussed on Gene, gaze boring into him. “Need you to stay ‘ere with me. Won’t ‘urt you, promise. Don’t ‘urt my friends. Only ‘urt the people I don’t like.”
“Like to see you try an’ ‘urt me, you little prick. I can’t stay ‘ere, Sam, my knees are goin’ to sleep an’ the rest of me’d like to as well. Just try to relax, I’m only down the ‘allway. Nobody else in the ‘ouse but us.”
“No!” Sam’s other hand clamped onto Gene’s wrist, dragging him forwards until the two men were within inches of each other. “No, you stay with me. Just for tonight. Won’t ask again, not unless you say no, but yer stayin’ ‘ere tonight.”
And all Gene could think about was how abnormally strong Sam’s grip was, in spite of the trembling in the rest of his body, the white pallor of his skin. Disturbingly strong. “Sam, please. Let me go. I’m gettin’ cold ‘ere, it’s late, yer ‘avin’ another of yer loopy turns an’ I ‘appened to be ‘ere. Come on, Sammy boy, give me my bloody arm back an’ we can all be on our way.”
Sam snarled, and shoved him away so hard Gene stumbled backwards into the dresser by the door, knocking his head against the corner of an open drawer.
“Ow! You bastard!” He scrambled up, every inch of him ready to throw Sam out.
Sam screamed.
“NOOOOOOOOOO! Gene! Gene! Save me, get ‘er away from me, ‘elp me, Gene! GENE!”
Writhing in pain, Sam clutched at his bleeding throat, shrieking so loudly the windows rattled; Gene started forwards, hands outstretched, only for Sam to kick wildly out at him, hissing and yelling, his hands covered in the blood dribbling down from his neck.
“Gene! Stop ‘er! I’ll kill ‘er- HELP ME! SOMEONE, PLEASE, HELP ME!”
Gene ran forwards, ducking under Sam’s flailing arms, and hoisted him up into his own, pulling the sheets over him as Sam’s screaming petered out, his punches growing steadily weaker until he lay in his Guv’s lap, head resting on Gene’s shoulder, one hand clutching a fistful of Gene’s pyjama shirt. He didn’t seem asleep, chest juddering with tiny sobs every so often, eyes darting round behind closed eyelids; he didn’t seem ill, and yet when Gene pressed a hand to his forehead he was clammy, freezing even, colder than Gene could ever remember anyone alive being. And yet Sam wasn’t shivering.
“Steady now, Sammy-boy. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He lowered Sam back down into the bed, tucking him in like a child. Sam’s hand began to relax on his shirt. “That’s it, let go of me. Don’t need to keep ‘old.”
Sam’s fingers tightened again.
“No, no, no, Sammy-boy. Better… ta very bloody muchly, you little bastard octopus. Just get some sleep now. Might even put you some toast on in the morning.”
And that might even have been a flicker of a smile, as Sam curled up beneath the sheets and closed his eyes, wrapping his own arms around himself and starting to shiver. Christ, he must have caught something. Maybe from one of those filthy journos. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going into CID tomorrow, not in this state; Gene still hadn’t forgotten David Lamb.
As quietly as he could manage, Gene tiptoed out, leaving Sam to sleep.
Rating: Blue Cortina (for vampire attack)
Word Count: 4,333
Notes: For the reverse!mini!bang. I believe it was little_cello's illo? Anyhoo, it's a vampire fic. Graphic vampire attack. (And this is also sort of penance to Cello. Sorry.)
Summary: Sam has a very, very bad night.
-0-0-
He’d organised the press conference in the only way he knew how- swiftly, efficiently and with Gene breathing down his neck muttering darkly about “waste of bloody time” and “bastard vultures” and “ram a pencil up yer arse if you don’t stop being so bloody efficient”, whilst Ray and Chris sniggered in the background. Woolf and his sudden fall from grace was big news; this case had been a shockwave to the entire police force and everyone wanted a slice of it, no matter how much Gene protested that they were wasting his bloody time and yelled at Sam for trying to make him use prompt cards. And protested against Sam forcing him to smarten up for it as well; the fight to change his egg-stained tie had been of Biblical proportions. Sam reckoned they’d heard them in Brighton.
He’d tried to ready Gene for the questions, but Gene had retreated to his office to neck as much scotch as possible for the big event and he’d readied a very nervous Chris instead, who seemed most pre-occupied about what he should do if Brenda ‘Big’ Parsons came and stood too close to him. From what Sam could gather from his rather confused stuttering, they’d had encounters in the past that wouldn’t look out of place in Jurassic Park. Not that anyone had thought of Jurassic Park yet.
Ray had been his usual helpful self, doing his best to get toilet paper stuck to Sam’s shoe beforehand and being bawled out by Gene when it ended up soiling his patent leather loafers. That, at least, had been a little bit cathartic, as much as Sam hated taking pleasure from his enemies’ suffering. Schadenfreude just wasn’t attractive.
But whatever he’d done, it had to be enough now, because here he stood in front of the gathered eyes of Manchester and Salford, notes poised and courage just about screwed up and Gene one side of him scuffing the floor with his shoe, Chris the other side trying to crane at the back of the crowd to check whether his mum was there because “she rang twenty minutes ago an’ said she was on ‘er way, an’ she’d bring me lunch as well!” Gene’s constant glaring was completely bouncing off Chris, wired on nerves and sudden stardom as he was, but the constant fidgeting and whinging was only setting Sam’s nerves jangling further and they weren’t calmed when the sheer scale of what he’d organised became apparent. Nor with the arrival of one Jackie Queen, strutting straight up to the front with pursed blood-red lips and spiky stilettos and staring expectantly at the three coppers gathered there, as though she could squeeze the latest scoop out of them through telepathy. Even Gene looked a little perturbed at her arrival.
Deep breath, Sam. Concentrate: now or never. They’re just journalists. You’ll be fine.
“Er… ahem. Ladies and gents- excuse me-”
The babble continued, one or two people nearby turning to regard him with raised eyebrows. Chris fiddled nervously with his shirt cuff.
“Hello? Ladies an’ gents?”
“Ladies an’ gents? Christ on a bike, Tyler, you know ‘oo yer talkin’ to ‘ere?” Gene snorted from beside him, flicking the lapels of his camel-hair coat and straightening his back as though preparing for battle. “Cover yer ears, this lot need to be told where they are.”
More than a little worried, Sam lifted his hands to his ears-
“OI! COULD YOU LOT SHUT UP FOR ONE SECOND SO YOU CAN GET YER BLOODY SCOOP AN’ BUGGER OFF ‘OME BEFORE I ‘AVE EACH AN’ EVERY TOSSER ‘ERE ARRESTED AN’ THROWN IN THE CELLS WITH SOME LOVELY RABID NUTTERS LIABLE TO RIP YER ‘ORRIBLE UGLY MUGS OFF!”
There was instant silence.
“Guv, you have so, so much to learn about Public Relations,” Sam sighed as he slowly removed his hands from his ears and straightened his jacket. The very corner of Gene’s lip twitched.
“Er… ladies an’ gents, welcome to this conference about the activities of Superintendent Harcourt Woolf prior to ‘is arrest an’ subsequent dismissal from the Greater Manchester Police. I’m DI Sam Tyler, my colleague ‘ere is DCI Gene Hunt- don’t be too scared- an’ this is DC Chris Skelton.”
Chris gave possibly the goofiest grin known to mankind, thrusting his chest up in some absurd impersonation of a body-builder; someone’s camera shutter clicked through a dozen shots, someone from the left sniggering. Sam cleared his throat.
“Thank you, DC Skelton. As most of you will be aware, Detective Superintendent Harcourt ‘Harry’ Woolf was recently dismissed from the Greater Manchester Police followin’ investigations into certain activities datin’ back to the late sixties, or prior to ‘is promotion…”
This was better. This was familiar, the stating of facts one after the other, statements that nobody would question but every pencil scratched away noting down, facing his waiting audience with his head held high and his notes clasped in his hand. Gene beside him was a strangely protective force, Sam safe in the knowledge that he would have his own patented method of dealing with any troublemakers; Chris, on the other hand, was fidgeting and grinning every five seconds, constantly checking around for any sign of his mother until Sam finally cracked and asked DC Skelton if he would mind going back inside and asking DC Carling if he had any records for the night of Mr Woolf’s arrest; Chris, with a face as long as a Basset hound, loped off towards CID, leaving Sam free of distractions for the end of his speech and shepherding Gene back inside as soon as the first questions began to ring out, cameras clicking away dementedly in their wake as they all but ran back to CID, both of them sporting the slightly blurred and harrassed look of men who needed a bloody good drink.
“Pub in ten, Sammy-boy. Hacks don’t stand in front of the Cortina, or ‘aven’t since I ran over some bastard’s foot,” Gene called through as he swept through into his office, snatching his wallet up from the desk (left there after Ray had told him Graham Quick would be there) and barrelling straight back out of the double doors again the second it was in his hand. Sam, rolling his eyes, headed for his own desk, only glancing up as Chris loudly announced his arrival by tripping over his own feet and toppling onto Ray’s desk, smearing ham and cheese sandwiches over the small mountain of open files.
“I meant to do that,” came from somewhere amid the cackles of the other DCs. Sam rolled his eyes, swiping his jacket up, so bloody exhausted from all his organising and the hullabaloo of the conference itself that it took him until he’d put it on and was halfway to the door to realise that there was something stiff and crackling in his pocket that he didn’t remember putting there.
Dipping into his jacket, he pulled out a single folded piece of A4, unfolding it to the tidy, curly script of Jackie Queen.
I’ve some information you might find handy. Meet me behind the Railway Arms at seven on the dot. Totally kosher information, as your lovely DCI might say. Oh, and don’t bring him. I’ve no desire to end up in jail for stabbing him with my heels. Just tell him you’ve a personal errand to run. I promise you’ll find it useful.
Chuckling, Sam folded the paper up and slid it back into his jacket. At least Jackie wasn’t the sort to waste police time over some cock-and bull story… and it would mean a little time away from Gene. Although why he wasn’t considering that a particular bonus was a little worrying.
-0-0-
Sam spent half an hour chatting to Annie in the canteen before setting off for the Railway Arms, thanking her for taking care of tea and biscuits for the journalists and for saving Chris from Brenda Parsons when she’d found her way into the foyer. Thus Gene was already half-cut by the time Sam arrived at the pub, leaning on the bar with a half-philosophical, half-sozzled look on his face, head turned in the direction of Chris dancing to Blockbuster on the jukebox and a froth-moustached Ray laughing at him through his pint.
“You’re lookin’ jolly,” Sam remarked, sliding onto the barstool beside Gene’s and motioning to Nelson for a pint; Gene raised his eyebrows, turning slowly to regard his DI with half-closed eyes, glancing round at the pint the barman slid over to Sam and then back to his own half-full glass.
“I survived the hacks. Chris survived Big Brenda. You got to be yer usual picky-pain organised self an’ will probably be ‘avin’ wet dreams about all that paperwork for weeks. Nothing to be miserable about, Sammy-boy, unless you count the state of the world, but that can wait.”
Sam considered for a moment, lifting his pint to his lips, just missing Gene’s eyes tracking the beer’s progress, lingering where the glass touched soft pink lip.
“Woolf’s goin’ down, but the whole force’s de-stabilised because of it. We need a steady ‘and at the helm until it’s all blown over.”
“Thought you didn’t like my metaphors? An’ you better be talkin’ about me there. I dread to think ‘ow many whisky chasers I’ll be needin’ if you put yerself in charge.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You’ll do nicely, but it’ll be more work than ever for the both of us. Yer team will still be relyin’ on you an’ the higher-ups will be watchin’ the both of us, especially with you being Woolf’s former DI.”
“Christ, Tyler. I come ‘ere for a quiet drink an’ I end up with the gloomiest bloody Mystic Meg known to mankind. Go an’ be a thorn in someone else’s backside.” Gene lifted his head for just long enough as it took him to drain his pint glass, curling his lip as far as possible around the cool rim, knowing without looking that Sam’s eyes were on his mouth. Mam used to call him an attention-seeker for deliberately putting on tight clothes and flirting outrageously with women, but it all stemmed from the desire to be secure, to be in control and a leader, and with Sam he too often found himself wondering just who was the dominant male in their relationship.
“OK. Just goin’ to pop out back, y’know, for some air.”
“You do that, Tyler, an’ remember yer rubber johnny.” Gene fished in his pocket for a cigarette, sniggering to himself at Sam’s slap to his back and the overly-dramatic exit from the pub. Maybe he wasn’t the only attention-seeker around here.
Meanwhile, he had pints to drink, scotches to down and Chris to laugh at. He could be content for tonight.
-0-0-
Jackie had said seven on the dot, and seven on the dot she meant. Sam heard the first click of her heels on the damp pavement at three seconds to, the second at two seconds to, and saw the first blonde curl and silhouetted smile at exactly seven o’clock, walking towards him with a firm self-assurance he rarely saw in anyone that wasn’t his DCI. Jackie held no notebook or pen, only a thick-set red handbag that looked as though it could fracture someone’s skull, and Sam almost wondered whether he should’ve brought Gene with him, just for proper procedure. Oh, alright, to have someone bigger than him around.
“DI Tyler.” Jackie held a hand out formally, her long red nails catching the light from the pub. Sam took it carefully.
“Jackie. Next time you want me, come an’ find me rather than sneakin’ about in CID, or I’ll ‘ave no choice but to tell Gene an’ ‘e won’t be ‘appy.” He was going to leave that for after he’d got Jackie’s information, but he needed to assert some dominance over the situation. Jackie laughed, her long white teeth flashing.
“And the big bad wolf will come and find me. I’m sorry, I’m sure, DI Tyler.” Jackie perched on the low wall beside them, drawing a cigarette from her pocket with a graceful, scarlet-taloned hand, and Sam sighed to himself, drawing a step or two away. Bad enough when Gene stank of cigarettes, or smoked in his flat and left it awash with fumes.
Jackie simply smiled at him, lighting the fag and taking a long draw from it, closing her eyes as the nicotine hit home. She looked like a big cat sunning itself in the Mancunian evening gloom, cigarette held delicately between two claws.
“Alright, Jackie. This information of yours?”
“Yes. I think you’ll find it very interesting.”
Jackie slid a hand into her jacket and drew out an A4-sized brown envelope, ‘Tyler’ in elegant script on one side, holding it out to him like a goddess bestowing fire on her people. Sam began to wonder if the doctors in 2006 had done something to his medication and Jackie had been inexplicably exaggerated, and instantly tamped down the thought that maybe they could do the same to Gene. Preferably when they were both back at his flat. And alone.
“Er, thanks, Jackie. What’s the information about?”
He lifted his head-
She was on him, clawing at him, drawing blood from his neck and his face and his arms, and Sam cried out but she was smothering him, her taloned hands over his mouth and his eyes and dragging him down to the ground, pain spearing at his neck, blood gushing, warmth down his front and over his skin and her, her mouth, attached to his neck and sucking his lifeblood out of him and Christ but he needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else, and he was kicking feebly but there was no escape, she had him pinned like a fly, and he could do nothing but lie there and…
And she was gone, leaving him lying in the alleyway behind the Railway Arms, blood dribbling down his neck and the envelope clutched in his shaking fingers.
-0-0-
“GUV! Chris’s bloody been sick on me!”
“Was… was not…”
“Then what’s this, magic fairy dust? You bastard! This is me favourite shirt! GUV!”
Gene sighed heavily, draining the last of his pint and clunking the glass back down onto the bar, raising his eyebrows at Nelson. The publican grinned back at him, reaching round to pat his shoulder, comfortable in the knowledge that he was one of two men in the entire world who could touch Gene Hunt in anything other than anger and not have the living shit beaten out of them for it.
“Go on, Mistah Hunt. You bettah deal wid the boy.” And leaning in closer, dropping his Jamaican accent, he added: “An’ once you’ve taken ‘im ‘ome, find DI Tyler, would you? Strikes me ‘e needs a little loosenin’ up in Nelson’s special way.”
“I accept yer mission, Nelson, much as I wish I didn’t ‘ave to. You wouldn’t call Mrs Skelton an’ give ‘er an ‘eads-up, would you?”
“Course.” Nelson gave the bar one more perfunctory wipe and turned away, stashing his cloth beneath the bar; Gene, with another gusty sigh, heaved himself off his barstool and over to the corner booth where Chris had collapsed beside Ray, the both of them covered in vomit that looked (and smelled) exactly like Gwen’s toad in the hole and treacle tart.
“Go ‘ome, Ray. Nelson won’t want you in ‘is pub stinkin’ like that. Chris…” He bent to haul his paralytic DC off the seat, only for Chris to fling his arms around his neck and nestle into his chest, an even dopier grin than usual on his face.
“Guv… make me feel safe… ‘appy…”
Chris promptly found himself on his rear end on the floor, blinking confusedly around him as Gene took a quick step back and snatched his coat up from the coat rack by the door, flinging it round himself and yanking the door open before Nelson could so much as call out from behind the bar.
“Where’d the Guv go? I wanted a cuddle,” Chris moaned, reaching out towards Ray; Nelson groaned under his breath, slipping out from the bar and grabbing Chris up himself. Mr Hunt would find a couple more scotches mysteriously added to his tab tomorrow.
-0-0-
Coldness. Darkness. Pain, ripping through him, through his neck, through his very being until he shook and moaned, writhing in the dirt. Warmth dribbling down onto his collar, onto his chest, and more on his groin, down onto his thighs.
He needed Gene. Gene would know what to do.
Jackie Queen, her sharp fingernails, her sharp fangs, and oh God what had happened to him, there was blood on his fingers and he didn’t even know how it got there, everything hurt and he needed Gene and Gene wasn’t here, and he could feel Ray grabbing his throat and Annie’s tender hands on him and Gene’s hair brushing his cheek as he held him, the two men pressed against each other, hiding in a cold, dark place and feeling each other’s trembling.
He’d never experienced any of those things.
Sam screamed, one weak, desperate scream, and sank into darkness denser than any he’d ever experienced before.
-0-0-
Gene had drunk his way through a hip-flask and was just lighting his second fag, leaning on the Cortina’s bonnet and watching the world go by, smoke billowing off down the street as he dropped the butt and scrunched it out under the toe of his loafer. Bloody Chris, more trouble than he was worth, trying to bloody cuddle him when he was just trying to get the little sod home, but no doubt the boy would be embarrassed tomorrow; he could see Chris turning bright red and stuttering about files from the collator’s den already, chuckling to himself and stowing his cigarette packet away as he heaved himself up and turned to get into his car.
Had he not been a police officer, hardened and attuned by years of observation and hard graft, he might have missed it. But as it was, Gene was off and running before the scream had even died away, the Cortina door left ajar and the keys jingling in his hand as he bolted for the alleyway behind the Railway Arms.
“Police! Show… oof!”
Foot connecting with something soft, warm and immobile, Gene fell face-first onto the cold ground, half-sprawled over what he assumed to be some drunk. Muttering about people taking advantage of his good nature, he squirmed round in an attempt to haul himself off the slumped figure, his fingers brushing short hair and leather jacket and-
Gene froze.
Tyler.
“Sam? Sam, you there? Talk to me, Sammy-boy.” Gene took hold of the silhouette’s shoulders and shook, lifting Sam up until the dim street-lighting illuminated the gleam of sweat on his forehead, the feverish fluttering of his eyelashes, the blood on his neck. “Shit, Sam, no. Wake up, Tyler. Open yer eyes.”
Sam moaned, shuddering in Gene’s arms. His skin was so cold it sent goosebumps up Gene’s own back.
“Right. ‘Old on.”
Easing round onto his knees, Gene hauled Sam up onto his shoulder, struggling to his feet with Sam a dead weight hanging over him; wheezing slightly, pulse thudding in his throat, he staggered back towards the Cortina and somehow managed to manoeuvre himself to open the back door and slide Sam onto the rear seats, propping him up against the opposite door. With Sam now beneath the glaring sodium light, the two gaping holes in his neck were all too obvious, the thin red dribble from his lips, the wet fabric over his groin and the stained, shredded shirt; he looked like a corpse from one of the forbidden horror films Gene and Stu used to watch in their teens.
“Sammy? Sammy, you there? Come on, Tyler. Open yer eyes. Say something. Be yer usual picky-pain self an’ tell me not to drive when I’ve been drinkin’. Sam?”
Sam moaned softly, his head lolling to one side. Blood trickled down his neck, onto his pristine shirt, seeping through the flower-patterned fabric.
Gene slammed the door and bolted round to the driver’s seat, screeching away into the night just as a sozzled Chris emerged from the pub, too late to do anything more than wave at the retreating lights of the Cortina, glowing red in the darkness.
-0-0-
Hands on him. Firm and reassuring, and bolts of pain raking across his skull, brain throbbing as he moans and writhes. The heat, the agony, the breath jarring through his lungs, never enough to ease his craving for oxygen.
Gene. Gene’s voice, Gene’s touch. Warm bedclothes, a soft pillow. Gene’s smell.
Screams, so far away. His screams. The stench of coagulating blood, the sting of fangs in his neck, and Sam shrieks for his mother, for his father, for Gene, unaware of anything but pain and rage, and the radiating ache in the centre of his chest.
He closes his eyes and sleeps.
-0-0-
Gene jolted awake at the screaming coming from his bedroom.
“Tyler? Tyler, what’s ‘appenin’? Tyler!”
Leaping out of bed, he sprinted down the corridor, into the spare bedroom and over to his prone DI, slapping the light on to reveal the blood-stained sheets, the deathly paleness of Tyler’s skin, the two oozing holes in the side of Sam’s graceful neck. Christ, this looked bad. He should have called 999 the moment he found Tyler, and yet that impulse just felt wrong, as if Sam himself would be telling him not to do that.
Since when did he answer to Tyler?
“Gene…” Sam moaned, jerking his head from side to side, and Gene stepped slowly back, watching in silence. “Gene… hurts… she hurt me… stop ‘er hurtin’ people, Gene, you’re the DCI, you know what to do…”
“Yer safe, Sam. Honest. Yer in my ‘ouse, it’s three in the bloody morning, an’ whatever ‘appened to you, we’ll find the person responsible an’ lock ‘em up for a long time, understood? We won’t let ‘em off lightly. They attack my DI, they attack each an’ every one of us. Yer safe ‘ere.”
“I know,” Sam whispered, one hand reaching out for Gene’s, cold, clammy skin brushing Gene’s arm. “Yer ‘ere, it’s OK.”
“That’s right, Sammy boy. Gene Genie’s ‘ere now an’ no bastard’s gettin’ past me, yeah?” He lifted his hand to let Sam grasp it, determinedly ignoring the voice in the back of his head hissing poofter. “Just go to sleep.”
“Stay… stay ‘ere with me.” Sam’s head lolled towards his Guv, his eyes cracking open a fraction until they focussed on Gene, gaze boring into him. “Need you to stay ‘ere with me. Won’t ‘urt you, promise. Don’t ‘urt my friends. Only ‘urt the people I don’t like.”
“Like to see you try an’ ‘urt me, you little prick. I can’t stay ‘ere, Sam, my knees are goin’ to sleep an’ the rest of me’d like to as well. Just try to relax, I’m only down the ‘allway. Nobody else in the ‘ouse but us.”
“No!” Sam’s other hand clamped onto Gene’s wrist, dragging him forwards until the two men were within inches of each other. “No, you stay with me. Just for tonight. Won’t ask again, not unless you say no, but yer stayin’ ‘ere tonight.”
And all Gene could think about was how abnormally strong Sam’s grip was, in spite of the trembling in the rest of his body, the white pallor of his skin. Disturbingly strong. “Sam, please. Let me go. I’m gettin’ cold ‘ere, it’s late, yer ‘avin’ another of yer loopy turns an’ I ‘appened to be ‘ere. Come on, Sammy boy, give me my bloody arm back an’ we can all be on our way.”
Sam snarled, and shoved him away so hard Gene stumbled backwards into the dresser by the door, knocking his head against the corner of an open drawer.
“Ow! You bastard!” He scrambled up, every inch of him ready to throw Sam out.
Sam screamed.
“NOOOOOOOOOO! Gene! Gene! Save me, get ‘er away from me, ‘elp me, Gene! GENE!”
Writhing in pain, Sam clutched at his bleeding throat, shrieking so loudly the windows rattled; Gene started forwards, hands outstretched, only for Sam to kick wildly out at him, hissing and yelling, his hands covered in the blood dribbling down from his neck.
“Gene! Stop ‘er! I’ll kill ‘er- HELP ME! SOMEONE, PLEASE, HELP ME!”
Gene ran forwards, ducking under Sam’s flailing arms, and hoisted him up into his own, pulling the sheets over him as Sam’s screaming petered out, his punches growing steadily weaker until he lay in his Guv’s lap, head resting on Gene’s shoulder, one hand clutching a fistful of Gene’s pyjama shirt. He didn’t seem asleep, chest juddering with tiny sobs every so often, eyes darting round behind closed eyelids; he didn’t seem ill, and yet when Gene pressed a hand to his forehead he was clammy, freezing even, colder than Gene could ever remember anyone alive being. And yet Sam wasn’t shivering.
“Steady now, Sammy-boy. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He lowered Sam back down into the bed, tucking him in like a child. Sam’s hand began to relax on his shirt. “That’s it, let go of me. Don’t need to keep ‘old.”
Sam’s fingers tightened again.
“No, no, no, Sammy-boy. Better… ta very bloody muchly, you little bastard octopus. Just get some sleep now. Might even put you some toast on in the morning.”
And that might even have been a flicker of a smile, as Sam curled up beneath the sheets and closed his eyes, wrapping his own arms around himself and starting to shiver. Christ, he must have caught something. Maybe from one of those filthy journos. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going into CID tomorrow, not in this state; Gene still hadn’t forgotten David Lamb.
As quietly as he could manage, Gene tiptoed out, leaving Sam to sleep.