Fic (and art) : Regard 17 and 18, MasterPages, Green, Drama
Title: Regard 17: Mismatch and 18: Chez Cartwright
Rating: Greenish (for a little colorful language and a little kissing and grown-up talk)
Word count: 2,114 and 1,971
Notes: This one took me a long time to post because I was working on the picture for chapter 17. I confess I copped out and traced the main facial features to make sure I got them fairly accurate. Not the greatest coloring job either, but I had dawdled so long I just wanted to get it done. So here's two chapters and a picture. :p
Summary: Sam and Gene's deal hits a snag/Sam takes refuge in Annie.
Previous chapter First Chapter
Sam kicked up a fuss about the evidence. Typical. Gene’s patience was wearing very thin.
“What do you want, Sam? You want a bunny rabbit to hop out of a hole, say ‘I saw the whole thing’ and offer a watertight testimony? You want something wrapped up in a pretty bow? Some details will never make sense. Just leave it.”
“There were thirteen bullets, Gene. My revolver houses six; so does the Browning. Keaton’s gun was fully loaded when he died.”
“So…”
“So, either he reloaded in the split second before I shot him, or the bullet from the wall of the next house didn’t come from his gun.”
“But it’s the right caliber, same type as the others. Everything’s just the same, it says so in the preliminary report.” Gene lifted the sheet of paper and shook it at Sam for emphasis. “Look, you said yourself you were in shock that night-maybe it took you longer to shoot him than you thought.”
“You heard the shots. How long was it between them?”
Gene hesitated. He wanted nothing more than to lie, say it was a good thirty seconds at least, but he didn’t think Sam would believe him. “Not long enough to reload,” he said sullenly.
“I shot at a man who might never have intended to harm me. I killed him.”
“He was probably about to shoot you himself. If it wasn’t his shot, it doesn’t change anything where you’re concerned. You still did the right thing.”
“But he might not be Rosemary Simmons’ killer. Her killer might be on the loose out there.”
Sam was much too excited. There was only one way of dealing with him when he got like this. Gene grabbed his DI by the upper arms and pushed him against the wall of the evidence room. “Listen to me, son. We find the stolen goods, we get to the bottom of all this. You’re all about following the evidence, so we follow the evidence, all right?”
Sam put his hands up between Gene’s arms and pushed them to the sides. Once Gene’s grip was broken he darted to one side to escape.
“I don’t know if there was someone else there that night or not, but we need to work together on this. Sam?”
“All right,” Sam said, looking away from him. “I just need to know you’re listening.”
Gene realized it was the first time he’d been rough with Sam since his injury. He still needed to be careful for a few weeks until he was sure Sam’s rib was healed. “I am. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Gene’s turn to make a hasty escape. He’d had quite enough of Sam’s hysterics for one day. Tomorrow they would take a break from policing and just relax, or so he hoped.
He selected his City colors blue-and-white tie for the match and was surprised to find that Sam wasn’t wearing anything red. Not so much as a button.
“No scarf?” he asked.
Sam shook his head. “Haven’t got one anymore anyway. Not since I was a kid. Anyway, United’s not playing.”
“Good; we can sit with the City supporters without you getting killed,” Gene said with satisfaction.
“I’m so relieved,” Sam muttered. He fell silent and his eyebrows started to loom over his eyes the way they always did when he was troubled about something, which was much too often compared to the public average.
“You’re thinking about Keaton again.”
“I can’t help it. You said in your report that you saw someone inside after you knocked at the front door… but I was already in back by then and I never saw him come through the door. He was down beside the house.”
“Maybe it was one of the residents I saw,” Gene suggested. “All I saw was movement-no color or height or sex or anything like that.”
“I think there must have been a second thief.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Gene brought the car to a stop and cut the engine. “Keaton always worked alone in the old days, and lately he’s followed the same patterns. Besides, where did this supposed accomplice of yours go after? Did he vanish into thin air?”
Sam started to answer, but Gene cut him off.
“No. No more theorizing. We’re here to watch a game. You’re not a police officer right now; you’re just Sam. So come on.”
Sam dutifully kept from bringing up the case again as they took their seats in the stands. “Who’s playing again?”
“York City. We’ll murder ‘em.”
“Great.”
Sam looked a little twitchy. He kept looking all around the stands at the cheering people, staring intently at some before moving on to others, as if he were searching for someone.
“Ought to be a good match.”
“Hm,” Sam responded vacantly.
“Tony’s got them in good shape.”
“Who?”
Gene rolled his eyes. “Tony Book.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t even know Tony Book?”
Sam shrugged. “Haven’t followed United for years, let alone kept track of anyone else.”
Gene got out his flask and took a swig. Sam resumed his distracted crowd-watching.
The game began and Gene began to enjoy himself. But Sam. Wouldn’t. Keep. Still. He didn’t like the notion, but he was beginning to think he knew what the problem was.
“He’s not here, Sam.”
Sam looked startled, like a child caught waiting for Father Christmas at the fireplace. “Who?”
“Even if it were a United game, your dad wouldn’t turn up here just by coincidence.”
Sam ducked his head. “I know.”
Gene felt a little guilty for deflating him like that. He shifted awkwardly. “You want a pint?” he asked.
“…Yeah.”
He got up and gave Sam’s shoulder a pat before working his way out to the aisle. A few minutes later he returned with two bottles of Guinness. Sam was conversing with an older man in front of him.
“Haven’t been for years,” Sam was telling him. “Just here for the fun of it, really.”
“Well, you enjoy it, son. We’re sure to give ‘em a good thrashing today.”
Sam smiled indulgently. “Let’s hope so.”
Gene passed one dark bottle to Sam and sat down beside him again. “I miss anything?”
“Well, I think someone mooned across the pitch, but other than that, not really.”
“Ha.” Gene took a drink of his stout and surveyed the field. “Oh, here we go,” he said as a City player took charge of the ball and charged down the pitch. “Yes… yes…”
The player took the shot and the goal keeper wasn’t quick enough to stop him. The stands erupted into wild cheering. Gene grinned and shouted along with them. Even Sam clapped.
“You’re cheering City now?”
“If United’s not playing, I might as well support Manchester,” Sam said with a shrug.
This sounded like treason to Gene, but he couldn’t complain about Sam being on his side for once. “Whatever you say, Gladys.”
“Oi, you can’t call me that right now; you said I was just Sam.”
“So I did. All right, then.”
Sam said nothing more for a long while, apparently shocked that Gene had given in so easily.
Hours later Gene drove back toward the Railway Arms, satisfied with the match’s outcome. Sam had even gotten into the spirit of it, in spite of his pansy United loyalties. When their conversation dwindled, he replayed the highlights of the match in his head, assuming Sam was doing the same.
“Gene… in the East Collins Street house, the accomplice could have hidden inside until you went out the back. He could have shot at me from a window.”
“By all the bloody saints, are you still going on about that?”
“In your report you said you opened the back door… was it locked?”
“I told you not to talk about this now. Take a day off, Sam. No more tonight.”
“I’m sorry, but this could be important. Was the door ajar? Was it latched? Or was it locked?”
Gene tried ignoring the questions. He parked the Cortina and got out, waiting for Sam to join him before heading for the pub.
“Do you remember?” Sam asked.
Gene reached up to shove Sam’s head away. “Shut it.”
“Just answer this one question.”
If I answer the question you won’t shut up about it the whole night. Might as well go home. Gene pushed Sam roughly back against the wall. “I told you to stop this,” he said angrily. “Tomorrow you can go back to work and police to your little fairy heart’s content, but tonight you’re celebrating a City win and having a drink with me, understand?” He added a little shake for emphasis.
“Gene…”
“No.” Gene drew back his fist, planning a punch to Sam’s shoulder-not as hard as it would be if Sam were one hundred percent well, but certainly hard enough to get a result.
He got his result before the blow ever landed, however, and it was much more extreme than he had expected. Sam seemed to shrink before his eyes, sinking down against the wall and holding his arms up defensively.
“Please don’t, Gene.”
Gene blinked in confusion. He’d hit Sam so many times he couldn’t begin to name them all, and Sam had always held up doggedly, if not returned blow for blow. “What the…”
“Please don’t hit me… not now.” He shrank down even further, until he was sitting against the wall, arms up over his face.
Slowly the pieces began to fall into place. Sam could take a beating, but not now. Not after they’d watched a football match together. Just as Gene hadn’t wanted to see Sam drink after they’d been to the cinema together… but for the opposite reason.
“Your dad never laid a finger on you, did he?”
Sam shook his head, otherwise still frozen in his defensive position. “Mum did… had to really… she raised me practically on her own. But… it’s just something he didn’t do. Probably would have if he’d been home more.”
Gene leaned on the wall above him, trying to process this stupidly awkward turn of events. I’m not really your dad… you know that.
He sighed and turned to settle beside Sam on the sidewalk. “Listen, Sam… maybe we’ve taken this thing too far, you know?”
Sam didn’t answer. He kept his face buried behind his arms and knees.
“I mean we’ve had some good times, and I’m not saying we can’t have any more, but… we can’t both be each other’s father-that’s just silly.”
“It was your idea to begin with,” Sam’s voice came muffled from behind his leather-clad arms.
“Yes, but… I was tryin’ to keep you alive and hoping you wouldn’t remember what I said after. I’m nothing like your dad, and thank God you’re nothing like mine. I think we should probably stop this before it does some real harm.” He waited, wanting Sam to speak next. He had to hear that Sam understood what he was saying.
All he heard from Sam’s department on the sidewalk was his breathing, growing heavier by the moment… and joined by a sniff.
“God, are you crying?”
“No! Shut up.”
“Sammy…”
“You’re right. It couldn’t go on forever. And yeah, we did have some good times. For a little while it felt like I had a dad again. It was… nice.”
He is crying, sod it. “It was at that.” With a sigh of great reluctance, Gene slipped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and waited for him to recover enough to lift his head.
When he finally did, Sam’s eyes were a little red, but they were dry. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
Gene pushed off the wall and got up, turning to offer a hand to Sam. “Come inside?”
Sam got up and put one forearm against the wall to steady himself a moment. “Yeah, but I won’t stay.”
He didn’t even order a drink. Just said a hasty hello to Nelson and went to use the phone. A minute or two later he was heading for the door again.
“Sam, wait.”
Sam halted and half turned back, not looking at him. “I’m going, Guv.”
“All right, but…” Gene got close enough to speak quietly and still be heard. It was probably too little too late, but he hated to see Sam leave so upset. “It wasn’t ajar. The door. It was latched for sure… I think it was bolted. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but you’re right: there are things about this case that don’t add up. If you like I’ll meet you back on East Collins first thing.”
“OK. Thanks,” Sam answered stiffly. Then he was gone.
(Here begins chapter 18, Chez Cartwright)
Sam was glad of the façade of privacy maintained by all good cab drivers. The cabby didn’t ask how his day had gone, didn’t ask who he was going to see at the address he had given, didn’t ask if anything was the matter, sir?
He was also grateful that Annie was so understanding. When he had phoned her she hadn’t pestered him to explain himself.
“Annie, it’s me,” he’d said in a low voice.
“Sam?”
“I know it’s sudden, but… could I come over?”
“Are you all right?”
“…No, not really.”
“Come as soon as you like; I’ll have the kettle on.”
“Thanks.”
Then he’d called the cab and gotten away from Gene as quickly as he could. He supposed his superior knew very well he’d shed tears outside the pub, but he didn’t have to see him in this state any longer.
Sam handed a five-pound note to the surprised cabby, who stammered as he turned away, “Oi, don’t you want change, sir?”
Not wanting to go back the few steps to the cab that seemed like a few miles, Sam waved it off. “Keep it.”
“Cheers, mate!”
It was probably the most the cabby had ever gotten for a single fare all year. Well, after all, Christmas was coming. God bless and good cheer and all.
Sam finally completed his journey to Annie’s door and gave it a knock. He knew he would feel better when he saw her, but when she opened the door he still felt unprepared for the relief-for the realization of just how much he needed her. He shuffled forward and put his arms around her.
She hugged him back in silence, rubbing his back and gently stroking the back of his neck. Slowly his tension began to fade.
“Come sit down,” she said at last.
He closed the door and went to sit on her sofa. The tea things were laid out on the table in front of him and he watched while she poured him a cup.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Sam considered his words carefully. Obviously he couldn’t tell Annie everything; even though the deal was off, he still felt an obligation to keep it a secret. “I… I feel like I’ve lost my dad all over again.” He was annoyed to find a fast-formed tear racing down his face like a hot little thoroughbred. But he didn’t do anything to stop it. “For the third time.”
Annie handed him his tea and put her arm around him. “Did they find Vic?”
He shook his head. “No… nothing like that. I can’t explain this. Not because you wouldn’t understand, and not because I don’t trust you, ‘cause I do. It’s just… this is something I’ve given my word not to talk to anyone about.” He sipped the tea and found it comforting.
She lifted off the sofa a little to kiss his temple. “You don’t have to tell me, then.” She settled against him and rested her head on his shoulder. “I know you always keep your word.”
More tears, but at least she couldn’t see them from that angle. He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, Annie.”
They drank their tea without talking until Annie asked if he wanted another cup, and would he have a biscuit, and Sam realized he was starving so he accepted. Time wore on and they both became sleepy. Sam was startled back to reality when light streamed through the curtains and he heard the motor of a car.
Annie stirred and sat up a little from where they had sagged back into the sofa. “That’s Dad home from the office,” she said.
“He gets home late,” Sam observed.
“Usually he has the morning shift, working on the evening paper, but sometimes he picks one up editing for the morning. The reporters get done about five and his lot spend hours getting it ready.”
“What time is it?”
“’Bout half one.”
Sam sat up. “Oh… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you up so late. I’ll call a cab.”
“Don’t be silly. You can stay here.”
Sam could honestly say the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Not this time, anyway. “Um…”
“I’ll make up a bed for you here and give you a lift in the morning.”
“You sure… your parents won’t find it dodgy?”
“None o’ their business, is it?”
“Er…” He smiled awkwardly. “I haven’t got a toothbrush.”
“I always keep a spare.”
“Really?”
“Ever since my mate turned up after a row with her ‘usband. Keep one here for her now, and a new one in case of an emergency.”
He gave her a quick kiss. “In that case, I guess I’m out of reasons to leave.”
“Good.” She kissed him back. “Come on; I’ll get your bed ready while you’re brushing.”
He did as he was told. As he looked at himself in her bathroom mirror, a new misgiving occurred: Gene will see I haven’t shaved and he’ll know I didn’t go home. He’ll never let me hear the end of it. He sighed. He’d committed now; there was no changing his mind.
When he came out, Annie was spreading a quilt over the sofa. “Here, you can wear this to bed,” she said, picking up a maroon robe off the table. “If it’s not too girly for you, that is.”
Overall, the robe was fairly neutral. “I think I can survive that,” he said, putting it over his arm. “Thanks.”
She put her arms around him. “Anything else you need?”
“Just one thing.” He pressed his mouth to hers and caressed her soft hair. “Good night, love.”
“Good night, Sam.”
He woke to the telephone ringing. This seemed to happen far too often. As he opened his eyes sleepily, he saw Annie rushing to answer the phone, giving a hasty “Sorry!” as she went by.
“Hello? …Morning.”
Sam stretched and looked around, wondering what time it was.
“That’s very nosy, mum.”
He laughed quietly.
“All right, fine. I’ll ask him.” She hung up abruptly and padded over to the couch.
Sam tried not to look at the way her form showed through her pretty white nightgown. Tried not to want to.
“Me mother wants to know if you’d like some breakfast before you go. Apparently she ‘couldn’t help noticing’ the cab arriving last night.”
He looked at her annoyed but pretty face and tried to determine the best course of action. “Would it be better if I just went?”
“You certainly don’t have to show your face over there if you don’t want to. It was very rude of her to let on she knew you were here.”
“I don’t mind, honestly. And I could probably do with a good breakfast. It’s going to be a long day. I mean, unless you don’t want me to.”
“No, no. It’s fine. I’m annoyed with her, is all.”
She started to get up and he grabbed her wrist quickly, sitting up to put his other arm around her. He had to kiss her here, on this couch, in that nightgown, before she went and changed. He felt her warmth through the soft, thin fabric and sighed contentedly, last night’s anxiety all but forgotten. “Good morning.”
She pulled away and ruffled his hair. “Silly.”
Half an hour later, washed, dressed and a bit more awake, Sam entered Annie’s parents' home with her and was met by a symphony of appealing scents.
“Come in and have yourself a seat, dear,” Laura called from the kitchen.
Annie rolled her eyes and ushered Sam into the kitchen where they sat at the table across from Alan, who was looking over the morning paper-admiring his handiwork or scrutinizing for errors.
“I hope you won’t mind my appearance,” Alan said, meaning his pajamas and housecoat.
“Not at all,” Sam replied with a smile. “It’s good to see you again.”
Laura began piling food onto their plates: eggs, sausage, fried bread, beans and tomatoes.
Sam inhaled the steam coming off his plate and sighed. “That’s what I call breakfast. Thank you so much.”
Annie relaxed a lot, but Sam thought she still hadn’t quite forgiven her mother’s prying.
“So,” Laura said, taking her seat, “I suppose you’ve got some serious work ahead of you… thefts and murders and all.”
“Oh, don’t ask about work,” Annie muttered.
Sam gave Laura an indulgent smile. “And how daft would I be to discuss unsolved cases in the same room with a newspaper man? It’d be professional suicide.”
Alan laughed. “He’s got a head, this one.”
They chatted about this and that and Sam enjoyed his breakfast very much, which he made sure to tell Laura at least twice.
“We should be going soon,” Annie said, looking at the little clock above the window over the sink.
“Sam, would you fancy a shave before you go?” Alan asked.
Sam felt the warm relief of unlooked-for help. “I would be most grateful for a shave.”
Alan nodded. “You go ahead, Annie; I can give Sam a lift when he’s finished.”
“Is that all right?” Sam asked Annie.
She didn’t look happy about it, but she said, “Of course.” She pushed her chair back and handed her plate to her mother before leaning down to kiss Sam’s cheek. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Probably quite a bit later-I’m supposed to meet the Gov at Springer’s and Collins to go over the scene again.”
“All right.” Annie gave her father a pointed look. “You be nice,” she told him.
Alan laughed. “Always, m’dear.”
Sam offered to help Laura wash up, but she emphatically declined, so he followed Alan to the bathroom where he was shown where everything was.
“I hope you can use a straight razor,” Alan said apologetically.
“I can, actually. Don’t prefer them most of the time because I tend to rush, but when I was a kid…” he laughed, a little embarrassed.
“My dad used to close his razor and then pretend to shave me with it. I was sure I’d always use a straight razor when I grew up.”
Alan smiled, leaning on the doorframe.
Sam lathered his face, noticing that Alan showed no signs of leaving him to it. He cleared his throat. “Er, I suppose this is the part where you ask me what my intentions are toward your daughter.”
“I don’t think that’s really necessary. Her mother and I would like to keep her forever, but she’s a big girl now and can take care of herself. It’s not really any of our business what she does.”
“Funny; she said as much last night.”
Alan laughed. “Of course, it’s still nice to know she’s in good hands. I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about with you, and long as she’s happy you’ve nothing to worry about from me.”
Sam wiped the razor clean and went for another swipe. Then he paused to be sure not to cut himself while talking. “Whether it’s your business or not, I’m sure you’d feel better knowing the man who stayed in her home last night was a gentleman and slept on the sofa.”
“No doubt I would. But as I said, it’s up to her, now.”
Sam nodded and resumed his shaving, making long, careful strokes. Somewhere in the next few seconds Alan disappeared and Sam didn’t see him again until he emerged from the bathroom.
“Ready when you are.”
“Haven’t you got a scarf, Sam?” Laura asked. “It’s quite chilly.”
“Ehm… don’t think I have.”
“Aren’t you a United fan as well? You ought to show your colors. You can borrow a scarf if you like.”
Sam smiled and shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
He followed Alan out to the car, wondering if he’d be getting a hand-made scarf for Christmas.
Chapter 19 here
Rating: Greenish (for a little colorful language and a little kissing and grown-up talk)
Word count: 2,114 and 1,971
Notes: This one took me a long time to post because I was working on the picture for chapter 17. I confess I copped out and traced the main facial features to make sure I got them fairly accurate. Not the greatest coloring job either, but I had dawdled so long I just wanted to get it done. So here's two chapters and a picture. :p
Summary: Sam and Gene's deal hits a snag/Sam takes refuge in Annie.
Previous chapter First Chapter
Sam kicked up a fuss about the evidence. Typical. Gene’s patience was wearing very thin.
“What do you want, Sam? You want a bunny rabbit to hop out of a hole, say ‘I saw the whole thing’ and offer a watertight testimony? You want something wrapped up in a pretty bow? Some details will never make sense. Just leave it.”
“There were thirteen bullets, Gene. My revolver houses six; so does the Browning. Keaton’s gun was fully loaded when he died.”
“So…”
“So, either he reloaded in the split second before I shot him, or the bullet from the wall of the next house didn’t come from his gun.”
“But it’s the right caliber, same type as the others. Everything’s just the same, it says so in the preliminary report.” Gene lifted the sheet of paper and shook it at Sam for emphasis. “Look, you said yourself you were in shock that night-maybe it took you longer to shoot him than you thought.”
“You heard the shots. How long was it between them?”
Gene hesitated. He wanted nothing more than to lie, say it was a good thirty seconds at least, but he didn’t think Sam would believe him. “Not long enough to reload,” he said sullenly.
“I shot at a man who might never have intended to harm me. I killed him.”
“He was probably about to shoot you himself. If it wasn’t his shot, it doesn’t change anything where you’re concerned. You still did the right thing.”
“But he might not be Rosemary Simmons’ killer. Her killer might be on the loose out there.”
Sam was much too excited. There was only one way of dealing with him when he got like this. Gene grabbed his DI by the upper arms and pushed him against the wall of the evidence room. “Listen to me, son. We find the stolen goods, we get to the bottom of all this. You’re all about following the evidence, so we follow the evidence, all right?”
Sam put his hands up between Gene’s arms and pushed them to the sides. Once Gene’s grip was broken he darted to one side to escape.
“I don’t know if there was someone else there that night or not, but we need to work together on this. Sam?”
“All right,” Sam said, looking away from him. “I just need to know you’re listening.”
Gene realized it was the first time he’d been rough with Sam since his injury. He still needed to be careful for a few weeks until he was sure Sam’s rib was healed. “I am. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Gene’s turn to make a hasty escape. He’d had quite enough of Sam’s hysterics for one day. Tomorrow they would take a break from policing and just relax, or so he hoped.
He selected his City colors blue-and-white tie for the match and was surprised to find that Sam wasn’t wearing anything red. Not so much as a button.
“No scarf?” he asked.
Sam shook his head. “Haven’t got one anymore anyway. Not since I was a kid. Anyway, United’s not playing.”
“Good; we can sit with the City supporters without you getting killed,” Gene said with satisfaction.
“I’m so relieved,” Sam muttered. He fell silent and his eyebrows started to loom over his eyes the way they always did when he was troubled about something, which was much too often compared to the public average.
“You’re thinking about Keaton again.”
“I can’t help it. You said in your report that you saw someone inside after you knocked at the front door… but I was already in back by then and I never saw him come through the door. He was down beside the house.”
“Maybe it was one of the residents I saw,” Gene suggested. “All I saw was movement-no color or height or sex or anything like that.”
“I think there must have been a second thief.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Gene brought the car to a stop and cut the engine. “Keaton always worked alone in the old days, and lately he’s followed the same patterns. Besides, where did this supposed accomplice of yours go after? Did he vanish into thin air?”
Sam started to answer, but Gene cut him off.
“No. No more theorizing. We’re here to watch a game. You’re not a police officer right now; you’re just Sam. So come on.”
Sam dutifully kept from bringing up the case again as they took their seats in the stands. “Who’s playing again?”
“York City. We’ll murder ‘em.”
“Great.”
Sam looked a little twitchy. He kept looking all around the stands at the cheering people, staring intently at some before moving on to others, as if he were searching for someone.
“Ought to be a good match.”
“Hm,” Sam responded vacantly.
“Tony’s got them in good shape.”
“Who?”
Gene rolled his eyes. “Tony Book.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t even know Tony Book?”
Sam shrugged. “Haven’t followed United for years, let alone kept track of anyone else.”
Gene got out his flask and took a swig. Sam resumed his distracted crowd-watching.
The game began and Gene began to enjoy himself. But Sam. Wouldn’t. Keep. Still. He didn’t like the notion, but he was beginning to think he knew what the problem was.
“He’s not here, Sam.”
Sam looked startled, like a child caught waiting for Father Christmas at the fireplace. “Who?”
“Even if it were a United game, your dad wouldn’t turn up here just by coincidence.”
Sam ducked his head. “I know.”
Gene felt a little guilty for deflating him like that. He shifted awkwardly. “You want a pint?” he asked.
“…Yeah.”
He got up and gave Sam’s shoulder a pat before working his way out to the aisle. A few minutes later he returned with two bottles of Guinness. Sam was conversing with an older man in front of him.
“Haven’t been for years,” Sam was telling him. “Just here for the fun of it, really.”
“Well, you enjoy it, son. We’re sure to give ‘em a good thrashing today.”
Sam smiled indulgently. “Let’s hope so.”
Gene passed one dark bottle to Sam and sat down beside him again. “I miss anything?”
“Well, I think someone mooned across the pitch, but other than that, not really.”
“Ha.” Gene took a drink of his stout and surveyed the field. “Oh, here we go,” he said as a City player took charge of the ball and charged down the pitch. “Yes… yes…”
The player took the shot and the goal keeper wasn’t quick enough to stop him. The stands erupted into wild cheering. Gene grinned and shouted along with them. Even Sam clapped.
“You’re cheering City now?”
“If United’s not playing, I might as well support Manchester,” Sam said with a shrug.
This sounded like treason to Gene, but he couldn’t complain about Sam being on his side for once. “Whatever you say, Gladys.”
“Oi, you can’t call me that right now; you said I was just Sam.”
“So I did. All right, then.”
Sam said nothing more for a long while, apparently shocked that Gene had given in so easily.
Hours later Gene drove back toward the Railway Arms, satisfied with the match’s outcome. Sam had even gotten into the spirit of it, in spite of his pansy United loyalties. When their conversation dwindled, he replayed the highlights of the match in his head, assuming Sam was doing the same.
“Gene… in the East Collins Street house, the accomplice could have hidden inside until you went out the back. He could have shot at me from a window.”
“By all the bloody saints, are you still going on about that?”
“In your report you said you opened the back door… was it locked?”
“I told you not to talk about this now. Take a day off, Sam. No more tonight.”
“I’m sorry, but this could be important. Was the door ajar? Was it latched? Or was it locked?”
Gene tried ignoring the questions. He parked the Cortina and got out, waiting for Sam to join him before heading for the pub.
“Do you remember?” Sam asked.
Gene reached up to shove Sam’s head away. “Shut it.”
“Just answer this one question.”
If I answer the question you won’t shut up about it the whole night. Might as well go home. Gene pushed Sam roughly back against the wall. “I told you to stop this,” he said angrily. “Tomorrow you can go back to work and police to your little fairy heart’s content, but tonight you’re celebrating a City win and having a drink with me, understand?” He added a little shake for emphasis.
“Gene…”
“No.” Gene drew back his fist, planning a punch to Sam’s shoulder-not as hard as it would be if Sam were one hundred percent well, but certainly hard enough to get a result.
He got his result before the blow ever landed, however, and it was much more extreme than he had expected. Sam seemed to shrink before his eyes, sinking down against the wall and holding his arms up defensively.
“Please don’t, Gene.”
Gene blinked in confusion. He’d hit Sam so many times he couldn’t begin to name them all, and Sam had always held up doggedly, if not returned blow for blow. “What the…”
“Please don’t hit me… not now.” He shrank down even further, until he was sitting against the wall, arms up over his face.
Slowly the pieces began to fall into place. Sam could take a beating, but not now. Not after they’d watched a football match together. Just as Gene hadn’t wanted to see Sam drink after they’d been to the cinema together… but for the opposite reason.
“Your dad never laid a finger on you, did he?”
Sam shook his head, otherwise still frozen in his defensive position. “Mum did… had to really… she raised me practically on her own. But… it’s just something he didn’t do. Probably would have if he’d been home more.”
Gene leaned on the wall above him, trying to process this stupidly awkward turn of events. I’m not really your dad… you know that.
He sighed and turned to settle beside Sam on the sidewalk. “Listen, Sam… maybe we’ve taken this thing too far, you know?”
Sam didn’t answer. He kept his face buried behind his arms and knees.
“I mean we’ve had some good times, and I’m not saying we can’t have any more, but… we can’t both be each other’s father-that’s just silly.”
“It was your idea to begin with,” Sam’s voice came muffled from behind his leather-clad arms.
“Yes, but… I was tryin’ to keep you alive and hoping you wouldn’t remember what I said after. I’m nothing like your dad, and thank God you’re nothing like mine. I think we should probably stop this before it does some real harm.” He waited, wanting Sam to speak next. He had to hear that Sam understood what he was saying.
All he heard from Sam’s department on the sidewalk was his breathing, growing heavier by the moment… and joined by a sniff.
“God, are you crying?”
“No! Shut up.”
“Sammy…”
“You’re right. It couldn’t go on forever. And yeah, we did have some good times. For a little while it felt like I had a dad again. It was… nice.”
He is crying, sod it. “It was at that.” With a sigh of great reluctance, Gene slipped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and waited for him to recover enough to lift his head.
When he finally did, Sam’s eyes were a little red, but they were dry. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
Gene pushed off the wall and got up, turning to offer a hand to Sam. “Come inside?”
Sam got up and put one forearm against the wall to steady himself a moment. “Yeah, but I won’t stay.”
He didn’t even order a drink. Just said a hasty hello to Nelson and went to use the phone. A minute or two later he was heading for the door again.
“Sam, wait.”
Sam halted and half turned back, not looking at him. “I’m going, Guv.”
“All right, but…” Gene got close enough to speak quietly and still be heard. It was probably too little too late, but he hated to see Sam leave so upset. “It wasn’t ajar. The door. It was latched for sure… I think it was bolted. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but you’re right: there are things about this case that don’t add up. If you like I’ll meet you back on East Collins first thing.”
“OK. Thanks,” Sam answered stiffly. Then he was gone.
(Here begins chapter 18, Chez Cartwright)
Sam was glad of the façade of privacy maintained by all good cab drivers. The cabby didn’t ask how his day had gone, didn’t ask who he was going to see at the address he had given, didn’t ask if anything was the matter, sir?
He was also grateful that Annie was so understanding. When he had phoned her she hadn’t pestered him to explain himself.
“Annie, it’s me,” he’d said in a low voice.
“Sam?”
“I know it’s sudden, but… could I come over?”
“Are you all right?”
“…No, not really.”
“Come as soon as you like; I’ll have the kettle on.”
“Thanks.”
Then he’d called the cab and gotten away from Gene as quickly as he could. He supposed his superior knew very well he’d shed tears outside the pub, but he didn’t have to see him in this state any longer.
Sam handed a five-pound note to the surprised cabby, who stammered as he turned away, “Oi, don’t you want change, sir?”
Not wanting to go back the few steps to the cab that seemed like a few miles, Sam waved it off. “Keep it.”
“Cheers, mate!”
It was probably the most the cabby had ever gotten for a single fare all year. Well, after all, Christmas was coming. God bless and good cheer and all.
Sam finally completed his journey to Annie’s door and gave it a knock. He knew he would feel better when he saw her, but when she opened the door he still felt unprepared for the relief-for the realization of just how much he needed her. He shuffled forward and put his arms around her.
She hugged him back in silence, rubbing his back and gently stroking the back of his neck. Slowly his tension began to fade.
“Come sit down,” she said at last.
He closed the door and went to sit on her sofa. The tea things were laid out on the table in front of him and he watched while she poured him a cup.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Sam considered his words carefully. Obviously he couldn’t tell Annie everything; even though the deal was off, he still felt an obligation to keep it a secret. “I… I feel like I’ve lost my dad all over again.” He was annoyed to find a fast-formed tear racing down his face like a hot little thoroughbred. But he didn’t do anything to stop it. “For the third time.”
Annie handed him his tea and put her arm around him. “Did they find Vic?”
He shook his head. “No… nothing like that. I can’t explain this. Not because you wouldn’t understand, and not because I don’t trust you, ‘cause I do. It’s just… this is something I’ve given my word not to talk to anyone about.” He sipped the tea and found it comforting.
She lifted off the sofa a little to kiss his temple. “You don’t have to tell me, then.” She settled against him and rested her head on his shoulder. “I know you always keep your word.”
More tears, but at least she couldn’t see them from that angle. He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, Annie.”
They drank their tea without talking until Annie asked if he wanted another cup, and would he have a biscuit, and Sam realized he was starving so he accepted. Time wore on and they both became sleepy. Sam was startled back to reality when light streamed through the curtains and he heard the motor of a car.
Annie stirred and sat up a little from where they had sagged back into the sofa. “That’s Dad home from the office,” she said.
“He gets home late,” Sam observed.
“Usually he has the morning shift, working on the evening paper, but sometimes he picks one up editing for the morning. The reporters get done about five and his lot spend hours getting it ready.”
“What time is it?”
“’Bout half one.”
Sam sat up. “Oh… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you up so late. I’ll call a cab.”
“Don’t be silly. You can stay here.”
Sam could honestly say the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Not this time, anyway. “Um…”
“I’ll make up a bed for you here and give you a lift in the morning.”
“You sure… your parents won’t find it dodgy?”
“None o’ their business, is it?”
“Er…” He smiled awkwardly. “I haven’t got a toothbrush.”
“I always keep a spare.”
“Really?”
“Ever since my mate turned up after a row with her ‘usband. Keep one here for her now, and a new one in case of an emergency.”
He gave her a quick kiss. “In that case, I guess I’m out of reasons to leave.”
“Good.” She kissed him back. “Come on; I’ll get your bed ready while you’re brushing.”
He did as he was told. As he looked at himself in her bathroom mirror, a new misgiving occurred: Gene will see I haven’t shaved and he’ll know I didn’t go home. He’ll never let me hear the end of it. He sighed. He’d committed now; there was no changing his mind.
When he came out, Annie was spreading a quilt over the sofa. “Here, you can wear this to bed,” she said, picking up a maroon robe off the table. “If it’s not too girly for you, that is.”
Overall, the robe was fairly neutral. “I think I can survive that,” he said, putting it over his arm. “Thanks.”
She put her arms around him. “Anything else you need?”
“Just one thing.” He pressed his mouth to hers and caressed her soft hair. “Good night, love.”
“Good night, Sam.”
He woke to the telephone ringing. This seemed to happen far too often. As he opened his eyes sleepily, he saw Annie rushing to answer the phone, giving a hasty “Sorry!” as she went by.
“Hello? …Morning.”
Sam stretched and looked around, wondering what time it was.
“That’s very nosy, mum.”
He laughed quietly.
“All right, fine. I’ll ask him.” She hung up abruptly and padded over to the couch.
Sam tried not to look at the way her form showed through her pretty white nightgown. Tried not to want to.
“Me mother wants to know if you’d like some breakfast before you go. Apparently she ‘couldn’t help noticing’ the cab arriving last night.”
He looked at her annoyed but pretty face and tried to determine the best course of action. “Would it be better if I just went?”
“You certainly don’t have to show your face over there if you don’t want to. It was very rude of her to let on she knew you were here.”
“I don’t mind, honestly. And I could probably do with a good breakfast. It’s going to be a long day. I mean, unless you don’t want me to.”
“No, no. It’s fine. I’m annoyed with her, is all.”
She started to get up and he grabbed her wrist quickly, sitting up to put his other arm around her. He had to kiss her here, on this couch, in that nightgown, before she went and changed. He felt her warmth through the soft, thin fabric and sighed contentedly, last night’s anxiety all but forgotten. “Good morning.”
She pulled away and ruffled his hair. “Silly.”
Half an hour later, washed, dressed and a bit more awake, Sam entered Annie’s parents' home with her and was met by a symphony of appealing scents.
“Come in and have yourself a seat, dear,” Laura called from the kitchen.
Annie rolled her eyes and ushered Sam into the kitchen where they sat at the table across from Alan, who was looking over the morning paper-admiring his handiwork or scrutinizing for errors.
“I hope you won’t mind my appearance,” Alan said, meaning his pajamas and housecoat.
“Not at all,” Sam replied with a smile. “It’s good to see you again.”
Laura began piling food onto their plates: eggs, sausage, fried bread, beans and tomatoes.
Sam inhaled the steam coming off his plate and sighed. “That’s what I call breakfast. Thank you so much.”
Annie relaxed a lot, but Sam thought she still hadn’t quite forgiven her mother’s prying.
“So,” Laura said, taking her seat, “I suppose you’ve got some serious work ahead of you… thefts and murders and all.”
“Oh, don’t ask about work,” Annie muttered.
Sam gave Laura an indulgent smile. “And how daft would I be to discuss unsolved cases in the same room with a newspaper man? It’d be professional suicide.”
Alan laughed. “He’s got a head, this one.”
They chatted about this and that and Sam enjoyed his breakfast very much, which he made sure to tell Laura at least twice.
“We should be going soon,” Annie said, looking at the little clock above the window over the sink.
“Sam, would you fancy a shave before you go?” Alan asked.
Sam felt the warm relief of unlooked-for help. “I would be most grateful for a shave.”
Alan nodded. “You go ahead, Annie; I can give Sam a lift when he’s finished.”
“Is that all right?” Sam asked Annie.
She didn’t look happy about it, but she said, “Of course.” She pushed her chair back and handed her plate to her mother before leaning down to kiss Sam’s cheek. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Probably quite a bit later-I’m supposed to meet the Gov at Springer’s and Collins to go over the scene again.”
“All right.” Annie gave her father a pointed look. “You be nice,” she told him.
Alan laughed. “Always, m’dear.”
Sam offered to help Laura wash up, but she emphatically declined, so he followed Alan to the bathroom where he was shown where everything was.
“I hope you can use a straight razor,” Alan said apologetically.
“I can, actually. Don’t prefer them most of the time because I tend to rush, but when I was a kid…” he laughed, a little embarrassed.
“My dad used to close his razor and then pretend to shave me with it. I was sure I’d always use a straight razor when I grew up.”
Alan smiled, leaning on the doorframe.
Sam lathered his face, noticing that Alan showed no signs of leaving him to it. He cleared his throat. “Er, I suppose this is the part where you ask me what my intentions are toward your daughter.”
“I don’t think that’s really necessary. Her mother and I would like to keep her forever, but she’s a big girl now and can take care of herself. It’s not really any of our business what she does.”
“Funny; she said as much last night.”
Alan laughed. “Of course, it’s still nice to know she’s in good hands. I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about with you, and long as she’s happy you’ve nothing to worry about from me.”
Sam wiped the razor clean and went for another swipe. Then he paused to be sure not to cut himself while talking. “Whether it’s your business or not, I’m sure you’d feel better knowing the man who stayed in her home last night was a gentleman and slept on the sofa.”
“No doubt I would. But as I said, it’s up to her, now.”
Sam nodded and resumed his shaving, making long, careful strokes. Somewhere in the next few seconds Alan disappeared and Sam didn’t see him again until he emerged from the bathroom.
“Ready when you are.”
“Haven’t you got a scarf, Sam?” Laura asked. “It’s quite chilly.”
“Ehm… don’t think I have.”
“Aren’t you a United fan as well? You ought to show your colors. You can borrow a scarf if you like.”
Sam smiled and shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
He followed Alan out to the car, wondering if he’d be getting a hand-made scarf for Christmas.
Chapter 19 here