Ashes to Ashes: Neutral Men, part V
Part V of my ongoing (and slow-moving) Ashes to Ashes fic, Neutral Men. Beware Season 3 finale spoilers!
Part V: Sowing the Wind
But you be strong and do not lose courage, for there is reward for your work.
Chronicles 15:7
Not again, Jim thought, when the tap came at his office door. He had taken off his ragged coat and folded it up on his desk, resting his aching head on it as a prelude to trying to sleep. It was almost eight in the evening: the station was mostly empty, though Jim knew that Hunt was still rattling around somewhere. It wasn't Hunt knocking on his door, though.
It was something worse.
Grey hair and gentle smile appeared around the peeling-painted frame. “Ah, you're still here, my boy. Good.”
“Where else would I be?” Jim eyed his superior blandly for a moment, then reached into his coat and took out a hipflask he'd picked from Gene's pocket while Hunt had been menacing him earlier.
Nick Callaghan shook his head sadly. “Is that really the answer, Jim?”
Jim looked down at the flash in his hand, shrugged, unscrewed it, took a long swallow without ever taking his eyes from the other man. Then he sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his face wearily with a pale hand.
“It's an answer,” he replied.
“I have a better one.” Callaghan held up a small, rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
Jim made a valiant attempt to look blithely uninterested, searching his pockets for cigarettes. He lit one and sat back in his chair, inhaling deeply, focussing intently on the experience, like a man having a final smoke before facing the firing squad.
Nick Callaghan was shaking his head again. “Gene Hunt is no role model for an impressionable young man.”
Jim snorted. “Role model? A teenager in a man's clothes? And you think I'm some sort of blank slate, to be seduced by fags and booze? Come on. You know what I was - you think this -” he held up the hipflask, “is anything? It's like drinking pop, it doesn't even work. What I need is to stay awake.”
Yes, he was sick of it. sick of being pushed around by one man who couldn't understand and another who liked to pretend he didn't. It was all so frustrating, so - soul-destroying.
Callaghan slid onto the hard chair opposite Jim, managing to look graceful as he wedged himself into the inadequate space. “Yes, Jim - that's what you always needed, isn't it? And look where it got you. Didn't your mother teach you the risks of getting what you wish for?” The smile became cruel for the briefest moment as Jim's fingers clenched hard around the flask. “No, of course she didn't. She didn't teach you very much of anything. Nor did your father. Do you remember why?”
Jim stared at the desk, didn't say anything.
“Because they didn't love you.” Callaghan's mock-sympathy was harder to swallow than the too-familiar words. “They didn't want you. Isn't it amazing? Of all the motivations, all the traumas life has to offer, all the thoughts and actions of others that can leave us bitter and alone - yours, Jim, is the most banal. Your parents didn't love you and so you hate the world. And you consider yourself better, more mature, more experienced in the real world than Gene Hunt. In your way, my boy, you are even more of a pretender than he.”
Jim rubbed the back of his neck, took a final drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out hard. “Is this going anywhere, Nick? Because I have paperwork to do.”
“Yes.” Callaghan nodded. “You always do.”
“And incidentally,” Jim went on, rising to his feet to show his guest out, “my parents,” he spat the word, “had nothing to do with the choices I made. It was me. All of it. Just me.”
“You place yourself at the centre of your own little universe, as always,” Callaghan murmured. “Every sparrow that falls is a metaphor for your own state of being. How strange and self-centred you all are. And you think yourself different to Hunt, in opposition to him - why, my boy, you and he are two sides of the same coin.”
“And you like to play those sides against each other.”
“Don't you?” Callaghan's eyes sparkled with merriment as he got to his feet. The wrapped package he left on Jim's desk, tapping it lightly, making the paper crackle. “This is for you. Let us call it a downpayment on your ultimate reward. You're doing well, my boy - Hunt is clearly becoming intimidated by your presence here. His guard is up in the wrong direction. Perfect. Keep up the good work.”
Jim touched the package with hesitant fingers. “What is this?”
“Sweet dreams,” Callaghan smiled, and closed the door behind him.
xxxxx
When Nick was gone, Jim checked the corridor outside for other unwelcome interlopers, then slunk back into his office, locked the door, turned up the fire, poured a large measure of Gene's whisky into a teacup, and opened the package. Inside - as he had known there would be - was a Betamax video cassette tape. On the label was written,
DS James Keats, 2005
Jim turned the tape over, looking for any other clue to its contents. There was none. He swallowed whisky before loading the tape into the top of the VCR and flicking 'play'.
A face appeared on the screen, in extreme closeup; Jim sat back, startled, never having been at such close quarters with his own nostrils before. The camera pulled back to a more appropriate distance, and Jim settled himself, lighting another cigarette, squinting through the smoke at the screen.
Unlike DI Keats of D&C, DS Keats had a floppy fringe, an unshaven jaw, and dark circles under his eyes which were far more noticeable due to the lack of spectacles. None of that mattered, though, in comparison to the expression in those eyes. They were the most different thing, the most startling contrast between the man on the tape and the man smoking in the chair. DS Keats looked so very much younger, and yet there was virtually no difference between their physical ages. A year or so, perhaps.
In real terms, Jim felt as though he'd lived a thousand lives and deaths between then and now. And that feeling was no metaphor, thanks to Nick.
Jim-on-the-tape knew nothing of what he had coming to him. He raised a hand to his face, running slim fingers over his jaw, and Jim-in-the-office felt the rasp of stubble against his own palm as he mimicked the action. Jim-on-the-tape stretched out his hand out as though to touch Jim-in-the-office, and as he reached slowly towards his counterpart, touching only the cool glass of the television screen, Jim realised he was looking into a mirror.
“Jim? Oi, Jim? Are you gonna be in there all morning, mate? I need a fookin' whiz.”
DS Jim Keats rubbed his jaw again, yawned and stretched. For a moment there he could have sworn he had seen a man in old-fashioned, oversized glasses staring back at him through the bathroom mirror. It had been like looking at himself in a Halloween costume. He shook his head, bemused. Too much work, too little sleep. Was he hallucinating now?
“Only be a minute, Rav.” He picked up his toothbrush. No time to worry about it.
“Make sure it is, we're gonna be late.”
If they were, it wouldn't be because of Keats. Jim was, always had been, a model of punctuality. If anybody was going to make them late for work in the morning it would be Ravi, who usually rolled out of bed half an hour before they were supposed to be in. This morning, however, Jim had overslept, and he was gratified to see that his flatmate had already made the tea. Washed, brushed, and cleanshaven, he drank off a cup while Ravi performed his own ablutions.
He was putting on his tie when Rav re-appeared, also clean and fresh, and relatively smartly dressed, though not wearing a tie himself. Jim had never met anyone who could not wear a tie so emphatically as Ravi Shoker. He turned to his friend, holding out his hands questioningly, arms wide, fingers spread.
“Well? How do I look?”
Rav shook his head, took hold of Jim's tie and pulled it up until the knot was too tight and askew. “The way you always look, mate. Like a fookin' bank manager.” Ravi shook his head in mock-despair. “No wonder you never pull.”
Jim snorted as he repaired his tie. “Never get the chance with you around, do I? You're a total tart.”
“I am not.”
“You are. That party last week at Francesca's? I saw you when those two musicians from Basingstoke arrived. Your face lit up like a Christmas tree and five minutes later, your trousers were round your ankles.”
“And you, despite being on a promise with the hottest girl in London, went home early to finish your report for DI Badger-Breath,” Rav reminded him. “So tell me, mate, who the fook is doing it right?”
Jim grabbed his coat and his car keys. “Some of us want to get a promotion before our thirtieth birthday,” he sniffed.
Rav's face brightened as he followed Jim out of the flat, locking the door behind them. “Decided what you're doing yet?”
“It's nearly a year away,” Jim pointed out.
“Yeah, but you have to sort these things early, mate, yeah? Book a function room, sort out the holiday.”
“Holiday?”
“Prague, mate! It's where they're all going.” Rav wagged a finger in Jim's face.
“I'm not going to bloody Prague.”
“Ibiza, then. Last year for the eighteen to thirty club!”
“No, Rav. Pissups round the pool don't interest me at all. I was thinking of going away, though. I thought I might treat myself to a few days in Scotland.”
Ravi was unimpressed. “Scotland. What's in Scotland, apart from haggises and irn-bru, and Scottish scrotes instead of English ones?”
“Castles. Lochs. Gorgeous scenery.”
“Yeah, and?”
Jim sighed. “I've heard the clubs are good in Edinburgh.”
“They're better in Amsterdam! Yeah, let's go to Amsterdam. Or, all right, if you want a relaxing holiday - 'cos you deserve it, mate, you work too fookin' hard - what about the Bahamas? Y'know, cocktails, clean blue water, tight swimming costumes...” he snickered as he hummed a few bars of 'Club Tropicana'.
Jim pulled a face. “Shut up, Rav. You know I hate that stupid song.”
“It's my favourite,” Ravi objected.
“That's because you have the musical tastes of a semi-educated cretin.” Jim told him, adding in a mock-RP accent, “it's what comes of doing a degree in economics, Ravinder.”
“This from the bloke who just booked tickets for Coldplay!” Rav chortled.
Their argument continued all the way to work. Jim-in-the-office watched himself drive the battered old car with his usual obsessive caution, obeying every roadsign with precision, always sticking precisely to the speed limit. If only he'd managed that in all respects, he reflected.
On the TV screen Ravi Shoker was laughing. The camera zoomed in close, letting Jim see every detail of his angular face, from his small, even white teeth to the fond look in his dark eyes as he mercilessly teased his friend. Jim reached out once again to touch the screen, his fingers resting lightly against Rav's pixelated cheek. How could he have forgotten Ravi? His flatmate, his best friend...they had been at school together, gone to the same university (though studying different subjects), joined the force only one year apart, when Rav realised he couldn't hack being a merchant banker like his father wanted, and decided Jim's job looked more interesting. They had been fast-tracked through the ranks together, joined CID together, been promoted to detective sergeant at almost exactly the same time.
Yes, they had been inseparable; if the amount of frequently-ribald jokes they were subjected to by their colleagues couldn't pull them apart, career advancement certainly wouldn't. Because of Ravi's background he'd been offered a position in the Fraud Squad early on, but he'd turned it down, ostensibly because he was sick of money, in reality so he could continue to work with Jim. Ultimately they had both ended up in the Drugs Squad, largely because of the useful contacts Jim had made working vice cases. And that was when everything had begun to go wrong.
The tape wasn't dated, but Jim knew, now, exactly what he was looking at, and why Nick had given it to him. This was the Day Before. The last really good day. It would be over a year until Ravi Shoker's death, and still a couple of months until Jim made his first shattering, irrevocable mistake, but still. If he kept watching, he would see himself promoted to Detective Inspector, just six months before Ravi himself received a similar promotion. Fourteen months before they worked together on the DeBrody case, seconded to Manchester CID. Fourteen months and three days before...
Jim hit the 'pause' button on the VCR.
Xxxxx
Daniel Connor had discovered the usefulness of listening outside doors at the age of eleven, when, outside his parents' bedroom, he had heard his father making love to a woman who was not his mother. Initially, this knowledge gained Daniel the BMX bike he had wanted. Because his father genuinely loved his mother, despite his little 'slip', it continued to gain Daniel things right up until university, when his father had gifted him with his first car. Not a grim second-hand chavmobile, either. A good car; a sports car. Michael Connor hadn't really been able to afford it. Daniel hadn't really cared. It was due payment for so many years of silence.
Listening outside Jim Keats' office, Daniel was equally hopeful of gaining information he could trade with. This time the payoff would be much greater than a bike or a car. So far, however, he had heard very little that he could make sense of. He was sure he had seen Nick Callaghan enter the office, and equally sure he had not seen him come out. And yet, even with his ear pressed to the door, Daniel could hear only Keats' voice. Was he talking to himself? That would not be a surprise; perhaps it was just the influence of what he had known about Keats outside in the real world, but in the short time Daniel had known him here, in this strange and haunted place, he had decided that despite his outward control, Keats was quite mad. Something deep inside of him was screaming fit to burst its throat, and what Daniel couldn't decide was which of those manifestations - the clever, manipulative man stalking Hunt like prey, or the shrieking, mindless creature within - was the real Keats.
Daniel thought he would have reason to find out, before all this was over.
Giving up on hearing anything useful from his little eavesdropping exercise, Daniel pulled himself out of the uncomfortable, crouching posture he'd adopted to listen at the door, stretching his muscles as he glanced around idly to make sure nobody was watching the watcher, as it were.
He wondered, with a jolt, how long the child had been standing there.
“What do you want?” he asked it, yet again, not really expecting an answer anymore. “Who are you?”
The child's pale eyes were riveted on Daniel's face. Did they see past his outward armour to the fear within?
“You hurt me.” It was a fluting whisper, more felt than heard. The boy's pallid lips never moved. “Why did you hurt me?”
“I didn't hurt you,” Daniel managed. The child took a small step towards him, and he stumbled back, bumping into the closed office door. One of the boy's hands was extended towards Daniel in a pleading gesture; the other clutched at a spreading red stain on his own stomach. And still the child kept coming.
“Hurts...” he whispered, again, the sound like a dying wind over a vast, empty plain.
“I didn't kill you!” Daniel all but shrieked. For a moment he thought it had worked; the child stopped moving, froze with his hand still extended, fingers inches from Daniel's sweat-slicked face. Then he began to gasp for breath, horribly, eyes bulging from his head, muscles convulsing in his desperation to get air into his lungs. The small body shook wildly, eyes rolling upward, pale skin turning a sickly, bluish shade; monstrous, wet choking noises bled from the tormented oval of the dying mouth.
Daniel closed his eyes.
The noises stopped.
He opened them again, slowly, cautiously.
The boy was still there, mouth and eyes wide open, a bluish-white finger extended and pointing at Daniel. As he watched, transfixed by the child's pale, dead stare, stagnant water gushed from the mouth, puddling on the floor, seeping towards the toes of Daniel's shoes. He closed his eyes again and moaned.
This time, when he opened them, the boy was gone.
Xxxxx
A thump against his office door made Jim stir from where he had been sitting with his face buried in his hands. He cocked his head, listening. The sound was not repeated; instead, a moment later, he heard a thin, anguished, very human noise coming from the other side of the door. Connor was seeing ghosts again. That was not Jim's responsibility; he had his own problems.
The distraction did, however, serve to shake him out of the near-fugue into which he had been sinking. Callaghan had left him this tape for a purpose. It was necessary to continue watching it, however uncomfortable the process might be. Ignoring the cry from outside his office door, he poured another glass of whiskey and hit 'play' again.
Then fast-forward. He couldn't bring himself to look at Ravi again; the shame was too much to bear.
Jim-on-the-tape, months later, looked much more like Jim-in-the-office. Not superficially: while Jim-in-the-office looked sharp and in control despite his inner discomfort, Jim-on-the-tape resembled some kind of folk musician the morning after a particularly heavy night before. His hair was unkempt, his skin sallow and slicked with sweat; the circles beneath his eyes had become vast purple shadows. His clothes looked unwashed, and hung on him limply. He wore no tie. Most importantly of all (as an indicator of his mental state, that is), he was perched precariously on the barrier of the Mancunian Way flyover, wind buffeting his already untidy hair, rain soaking into his unironed shirt.
His current troubles aside, the wind felt good. Liberating.
His hand fumbled in his pocket and he removed a small, white bottle. Without ceremony he upended it, watched with lifeless eyes as a scattering of tiny pills tumbled down to the fast road below.
“Hello.”
The voice behind him would have come as a surprise, gentle as it was, but Jim was beyond being startled; he was too tired. More tired than he had ever been in his life. His dazed mind vaguely wondered how he could get the pills back.
While he was wondering, the owner of the voice had crept closer. Jim turned slowly to see a familiar man, conservatively dressed, with calm, serious eyes, and hands outstretched in a placating gesture which confused Jim until he realised its meaning. Don't jump.
Had it been anyone else - a stranger - he might have laughed. Instead he made an attempt to scramble down from the barrier to the safety of the roadside.
“Sir. I was just...getting some air.”
“And you couldn't get enough of it on this side of the barrier?” He spoke lightly, belying his still-cautious extended hands, the careful way in which he slipped closer, as if creeping up on some wild animal which might bolt at any second.
“I, er...” Jim didn't have an answer. He shrugged and tried on a smile. It didn't feel right, and from the other man's reaction, didn't look right either.
“It's Jim, isn't it? DI Jim Keats, from the Metropolitan police. Working on the DeBrody drugs case.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We're off duty now, Jim. You can call me Sam.”
Jim nodded, though he had no intention of addressing a superior in such a familiar way.
“Mind if I join you?” Still that caution; talking down a jumper. This is all a stupid mistake. I wasn't going to jump, Jim thought. Was I?
“Nice evening,” DCI Tyler said, absurdly, leaning against the barrier and looking down at the cars speeding along the wet road below. He smiled, perhaps to show his comment had been a joke, despite the singular lack of humour in his voice.
“I just...” Jim cleared his throat and tried again, “I needed to get out for a while.”
“The operation's in two days, isn't it? I've been following your progress. You've worked hard to bring the DeBrody case to a conclusion. It's understandable to be nervous.”
You don't know the half of it, sir, Jim thought. Unless he did. Could that be it? Could Tyler be here to arrest him? Did they know?
He jumped when Sam spoke again, an apparent non sequiter: “you were fast-tracked, weren't you? You have a degree.”
“In psychology,” Jim agreed, realising how ridiculous that sounded coming from someone standing on a bridge in the dark and rain, looking like he'd just escaped from a psychiatric hospital.
“It can be stressful, rising through the ranks so quickly. There's a lot of pressure to do well, to prove yourself.”
“Yes, sir...Sam. That's true.”
A more comfortable silence. Then, “I had a phone call from your immediate superior at the Met. DCI Cooper.”
Badger Breath, Jim thought, and with effort bit back a wild laugh.
“I've also been talking to a friend of yours. DI Shoker.”
Jim lost all desire to laugh. Rav, what have you said?
“He's a bit worried about you. They both are. They think you're working too hard, expecting too much of yourself.”
“Sorry, sir,” Jim gripped the metal rail before him very hard, not wanting Tyler to see his hands shaking, “but why were they talking to you? We hardly know each other.”
“Gwen Cooper's an old acquaintance of mine,” Tyler explained. “She used to work up here in Manchester before her promotion. To be honest, Jim, she's concerned that she might have been putting too much on you, too soon. Nobody doubts your ability, but from what your friend Ravinder said, you've been working long days and hardly sleeping, for months now. It all adds up, Jim. Take it from me, you don't want to burn out. You've got a brilliant future ahead of you in the Met. Don't risk it.”
Jim stared silently into the oncoming night. The cars that raced by below all had their headlights on now, marking the damp road with slicks of nauseating, unnatural yellow. Perhaps Tyler mistook his stiff posture for anger, because he said,
“I know you think I'm interfering, and you're probably annoyed that your friends have been talking to me, but listen - I'm on your side. I've been there, in your place, trying to do too much and suffering for it. Trust me, you don't want to go there, DI Keats.”
Jim didn't answer. No, he didn't want to go there; it was just that he had no choice. His shoulders slumped wearily; Tyler, noticing this as he appeared to notice everything, placed a warm hand lightly on his stooped back.
“Let's just let it go for now, then. All I'm really saying is - if you need someone to talk to...”
For a mad, beautiful moment, Jim considered it: telling DCI Tyler everything, making a clean breast of things. It would be the end of his career, but perhaps - just perhaps - he might be able to get his life back. Get himself back.
Jim-in-the-office, Jim-the-thousand-times-damned, wondered what would have happened had he taken up Sam Tyler on his generous offer. He would not be here now, that was for certain. Perhaps neither of them would ever have met Gene Hunt. Jim-on-the-bridge, however, toyed with the idea for a fraction of a second before letting it go, releasing it to be buffeted and snatched away by the wind. He smiled tiredly and said,
“Thank you, Sam.”
And then they went their separate ways. Jim had spoken to Sam just once since then - he was still waiting for his answer.
xxxx
A violent crash startled Jim awake. He sat up, blinking stupidly; still mired in the remnants of his dream, he mumbled, “Sam?”
Gene Hunt, standing in the doorway, raised a quizzical and none-too-pleased eyebrow. At first Jim thought he had heard the familiar name...and then Hunt said,
“Where's my whiskey, you thieving little scrotum?”
Jim handed over the empty hipflask with a shrug. Hunt growled at him, made a half-hearted lunge across the desk, then paused. Perhaps he had seen how bloodshot Jim's eyes were, or how his hand had shaken just a little as he passed the flask across; perhaps he simply couldn't be bothered, at this time of night, to work up the energy required to give a colleague a good pasting.
“Luigi's,” Gene grunted, instead. “Wouldn't bother asking you, but Cartwright insisted. He's like a ruddy schoolgirl with a crush.”
Jim smiled vaguely at that - he rather liked Arnie, with his silly hair and wide, trusting eyes - but said, “no, thanks. Some of us have paperwork to do.”
Hunt looked down at him for a moment, green eyes narrowed. After a moment he shrugged. “Please yourself. I'd just as soon not have you there, lurking in the shadows like some sort of unholy cross between a crap policeman and a vampire.”
He turned to go. Before he could close the door, something made Jim ask quietly,
“Have you ever found yourself between a rock and a hard place, Gene?”
“No. I don't go to that kind of nightclub.”
“You know what I mean.” Jim lit up a smoke and offered the pack to Gene. With an expression of almost comical suspicion, as if it might explode in his mouth, Gene took one and allowed Jim to light it for him.
“Have you ever felt caught between two equal and opposing forces?” Jim went on, “knowing that whichever path you choose...you can't win. You're damned, either way.”
“Certainly. It's like going to the pub, or not going to the pub. If I go, I'll have a hangover. If I don't, I'll be sober. Buggered either way. Know which one I prefer, though.”
Jim shook his head. “You have a gift for bringing the most profound philosophical questions down to gutter-level, don't you?”
“I was top of the class in it at school.”
They smoked in silence for a moment, until Gene said, “what the bloody hell are you on about, Jimbo?”
“I used to have this friend, as a kid. He was quiet, intelligent, polite, and helpful. A nice lad all round. And then his parents split up. He agonised over which side to choose - whether to live with Mum or Dad, which would be best, who was most deserving of his loyalty. In the end, he realised it didn't matter, because while they wanted very different things from their lives, neither of them wanted him.”
Gene smoked his cigarette and didn't say anything except, “is that another meta-whatsit?”
Jim smiled thinly. “Work it out for yourself.”
“Well, it's a very interesting story, Jimbo, but it's not getting us drunk, is it? Come on. Sod paperwork. We'll persuade Luigi to give us a lock-in.” He got to his feet, reached over the desk and unceremoniously dragged Jim up, as well.
As Gene's hand clamped around his arm, something peculiar happened. A curious tingling coolness - entirely unlike the burning dry heat of Nick Callaghan's touch - spread out from the point of contact until it seemed to engulf Jim's whole body. Instead of pulling away, it made him want to move closer. For the briefest instant he wanted to grab Gene, cling to him and not let go until that strange and wonderful energy had suffused him completely, drowning the fiery, spitting monster inside of him once and for all. Had the others felt this, he wondered? Alex, Ray, Chris and Shaz? Sam Tyler? Had they all been seduced by this absurd feeling that somehow, staying close to Gene would make everything turn out all right?
If Hunt noticed Jim's momentary confusion, he didn't remark upon it. As he shooed Jim out into the cool of the corridor, however, he asked,
“Jimbo. What happened to that friend of yours, in the end?”
“It was a tragic story,” Jim said blandly. “He went bad ways, got into drugs, ended up killing himself.”
“Oh. Very sad.”
“You don't look sad.”
“No, but I'm crying like a little girl on the inside, believe me.”
Jim snorted. “What a sympathetic nature.”
Gene huffed, “haven't ever had much time for junkies, and blokes who off themselves, Jim.”
“Believe me when I say,” Jim replied, his voice full of meaning, “that I'm well aware of that.”
Hunt eyed him for a moment. Jim, regarding him calmly, saw the exact instant when he decided to let the comment go unquestioned. He did a lot of that sort of thing, did Gene Hunt.
“Come on. I'll buy you a glass of poncy Chardonnay. If I get you pissed enough, perhaps you'll let me write something in your filofax. That would be thrilling.”
“I'm a naturally exciting person,” agreed Jim, locking his office door behind them. “In fact, I'm on fire.”
On to Part VI: The frying pan of purgatory.
Part V: Sowing the Wind
But you be strong and do not lose courage, for there is reward for your work.
Chronicles 15:7
Not again, Jim thought, when the tap came at his office door. He had taken off his ragged coat and folded it up on his desk, resting his aching head on it as a prelude to trying to sleep. It was almost eight in the evening: the station was mostly empty, though Jim knew that Hunt was still rattling around somewhere. It wasn't Hunt knocking on his door, though.
It was something worse.
Grey hair and gentle smile appeared around the peeling-painted frame. “Ah, you're still here, my boy. Good.”
“Where else would I be?” Jim eyed his superior blandly for a moment, then reached into his coat and took out a hipflask he'd picked from Gene's pocket while Hunt had been menacing him earlier.
Nick Callaghan shook his head sadly. “Is that really the answer, Jim?”
Jim looked down at the flash in his hand, shrugged, unscrewed it, took a long swallow without ever taking his eyes from the other man. Then he sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his face wearily with a pale hand.
“It's an answer,” he replied.
“I have a better one.” Callaghan held up a small, rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
Jim made a valiant attempt to look blithely uninterested, searching his pockets for cigarettes. He lit one and sat back in his chair, inhaling deeply, focussing intently on the experience, like a man having a final smoke before facing the firing squad.
Nick Callaghan was shaking his head again. “Gene Hunt is no role model for an impressionable young man.”
Jim snorted. “Role model? A teenager in a man's clothes? And you think I'm some sort of blank slate, to be seduced by fags and booze? Come on. You know what I was - you think this -” he held up the hipflask, “is anything? It's like drinking pop, it doesn't even work. What I need is to stay awake.”
Yes, he was sick of it. sick of being pushed around by one man who couldn't understand and another who liked to pretend he didn't. It was all so frustrating, so - soul-destroying.
Callaghan slid onto the hard chair opposite Jim, managing to look graceful as he wedged himself into the inadequate space. “Yes, Jim - that's what you always needed, isn't it? And look where it got you. Didn't your mother teach you the risks of getting what you wish for?” The smile became cruel for the briefest moment as Jim's fingers clenched hard around the flask. “No, of course she didn't. She didn't teach you very much of anything. Nor did your father. Do you remember why?”
Jim stared at the desk, didn't say anything.
“Because they didn't love you.” Callaghan's mock-sympathy was harder to swallow than the too-familiar words. “They didn't want you. Isn't it amazing? Of all the motivations, all the traumas life has to offer, all the thoughts and actions of others that can leave us bitter and alone - yours, Jim, is the most banal. Your parents didn't love you and so you hate the world. And you consider yourself better, more mature, more experienced in the real world than Gene Hunt. In your way, my boy, you are even more of a pretender than he.”
Jim rubbed the back of his neck, took a final drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out hard. “Is this going anywhere, Nick? Because I have paperwork to do.”
“Yes.” Callaghan nodded. “You always do.”
“And incidentally,” Jim went on, rising to his feet to show his guest out, “my parents,” he spat the word, “had nothing to do with the choices I made. It was me. All of it. Just me.”
“You place yourself at the centre of your own little universe, as always,” Callaghan murmured. “Every sparrow that falls is a metaphor for your own state of being. How strange and self-centred you all are. And you think yourself different to Hunt, in opposition to him - why, my boy, you and he are two sides of the same coin.”
“And you like to play those sides against each other.”
“Don't you?” Callaghan's eyes sparkled with merriment as he got to his feet. The wrapped package he left on Jim's desk, tapping it lightly, making the paper crackle. “This is for you. Let us call it a downpayment on your ultimate reward. You're doing well, my boy - Hunt is clearly becoming intimidated by your presence here. His guard is up in the wrong direction. Perfect. Keep up the good work.”
Jim touched the package with hesitant fingers. “What is this?”
“Sweet dreams,” Callaghan smiled, and closed the door behind him.
xxxxx
When Nick was gone, Jim checked the corridor outside for other unwelcome interlopers, then slunk back into his office, locked the door, turned up the fire, poured a large measure of Gene's whisky into a teacup, and opened the package. Inside - as he had known there would be - was a Betamax video cassette tape. On the label was written,
DS James Keats, 2005
Jim turned the tape over, looking for any other clue to its contents. There was none. He swallowed whisky before loading the tape into the top of the VCR and flicking 'play'.
A face appeared on the screen, in extreme closeup; Jim sat back, startled, never having been at such close quarters with his own nostrils before. The camera pulled back to a more appropriate distance, and Jim settled himself, lighting another cigarette, squinting through the smoke at the screen.
Unlike DI Keats of D&C, DS Keats had a floppy fringe, an unshaven jaw, and dark circles under his eyes which were far more noticeable due to the lack of spectacles. None of that mattered, though, in comparison to the expression in those eyes. They were the most different thing, the most startling contrast between the man on the tape and the man smoking in the chair. DS Keats looked so very much younger, and yet there was virtually no difference between their physical ages. A year or so, perhaps.
In real terms, Jim felt as though he'd lived a thousand lives and deaths between then and now. And that feeling was no metaphor, thanks to Nick.
Jim-on-the-tape knew nothing of what he had coming to him. He raised a hand to his face, running slim fingers over his jaw, and Jim-in-the-office felt the rasp of stubble against his own palm as he mimicked the action. Jim-on-the-tape stretched out his hand out as though to touch Jim-in-the-office, and as he reached slowly towards his counterpart, touching only the cool glass of the television screen, Jim realised he was looking into a mirror.
“Jim? Oi, Jim? Are you gonna be in there all morning, mate? I need a fookin' whiz.”
DS Jim Keats rubbed his jaw again, yawned and stretched. For a moment there he could have sworn he had seen a man in old-fashioned, oversized glasses staring back at him through the bathroom mirror. It had been like looking at himself in a Halloween costume. He shook his head, bemused. Too much work, too little sleep. Was he hallucinating now?
“Only be a minute, Rav.” He picked up his toothbrush. No time to worry about it.
“Make sure it is, we're gonna be late.”
If they were, it wouldn't be because of Keats. Jim was, always had been, a model of punctuality. If anybody was going to make them late for work in the morning it would be Ravi, who usually rolled out of bed half an hour before they were supposed to be in. This morning, however, Jim had overslept, and he was gratified to see that his flatmate had already made the tea. Washed, brushed, and cleanshaven, he drank off a cup while Ravi performed his own ablutions.
He was putting on his tie when Rav re-appeared, also clean and fresh, and relatively smartly dressed, though not wearing a tie himself. Jim had never met anyone who could not wear a tie so emphatically as Ravi Shoker. He turned to his friend, holding out his hands questioningly, arms wide, fingers spread.
“Well? How do I look?”
Rav shook his head, took hold of Jim's tie and pulled it up until the knot was too tight and askew. “The way you always look, mate. Like a fookin' bank manager.” Ravi shook his head in mock-despair. “No wonder you never pull.”
Jim snorted as he repaired his tie. “Never get the chance with you around, do I? You're a total tart.”
“I am not.”
“You are. That party last week at Francesca's? I saw you when those two musicians from Basingstoke arrived. Your face lit up like a Christmas tree and five minutes later, your trousers were round your ankles.”
“And you, despite being on a promise with the hottest girl in London, went home early to finish your report for DI Badger-Breath,” Rav reminded him. “So tell me, mate, who the fook is doing it right?”
Jim grabbed his coat and his car keys. “Some of us want to get a promotion before our thirtieth birthday,” he sniffed.
Rav's face brightened as he followed Jim out of the flat, locking the door behind them. “Decided what you're doing yet?”
“It's nearly a year away,” Jim pointed out.
“Yeah, but you have to sort these things early, mate, yeah? Book a function room, sort out the holiday.”
“Holiday?”
“Prague, mate! It's where they're all going.” Rav wagged a finger in Jim's face.
“I'm not going to bloody Prague.”
“Ibiza, then. Last year for the eighteen to thirty club!”
“No, Rav. Pissups round the pool don't interest me at all. I was thinking of going away, though. I thought I might treat myself to a few days in Scotland.”
Ravi was unimpressed. “Scotland. What's in Scotland, apart from haggises and irn-bru, and Scottish scrotes instead of English ones?”
“Castles. Lochs. Gorgeous scenery.”
“Yeah, and?”
Jim sighed. “I've heard the clubs are good in Edinburgh.”
“They're better in Amsterdam! Yeah, let's go to Amsterdam. Or, all right, if you want a relaxing holiday - 'cos you deserve it, mate, you work too fookin' hard - what about the Bahamas? Y'know, cocktails, clean blue water, tight swimming costumes...” he snickered as he hummed a few bars of 'Club Tropicana'.
Jim pulled a face. “Shut up, Rav. You know I hate that stupid song.”
“It's my favourite,” Ravi objected.
“That's because you have the musical tastes of a semi-educated cretin.” Jim told him, adding in a mock-RP accent, “it's what comes of doing a degree in economics, Ravinder.”
“This from the bloke who just booked tickets for Coldplay!” Rav chortled.
Their argument continued all the way to work. Jim-in-the-office watched himself drive the battered old car with his usual obsessive caution, obeying every roadsign with precision, always sticking precisely to the speed limit. If only he'd managed that in all respects, he reflected.
On the TV screen Ravi Shoker was laughing. The camera zoomed in close, letting Jim see every detail of his angular face, from his small, even white teeth to the fond look in his dark eyes as he mercilessly teased his friend. Jim reached out once again to touch the screen, his fingers resting lightly against Rav's pixelated cheek. How could he have forgotten Ravi? His flatmate, his best friend...they had been at school together, gone to the same university (though studying different subjects), joined the force only one year apart, when Rav realised he couldn't hack being a merchant banker like his father wanted, and decided Jim's job looked more interesting. They had been fast-tracked through the ranks together, joined CID together, been promoted to detective sergeant at almost exactly the same time.
Yes, they had been inseparable; if the amount of frequently-ribald jokes they were subjected to by their colleagues couldn't pull them apart, career advancement certainly wouldn't. Because of Ravi's background he'd been offered a position in the Fraud Squad early on, but he'd turned it down, ostensibly because he was sick of money, in reality so he could continue to work with Jim. Ultimately they had both ended up in the Drugs Squad, largely because of the useful contacts Jim had made working vice cases. And that was when everything had begun to go wrong.
The tape wasn't dated, but Jim knew, now, exactly what he was looking at, and why Nick had given it to him. This was the Day Before. The last really good day. It would be over a year until Ravi Shoker's death, and still a couple of months until Jim made his first shattering, irrevocable mistake, but still. If he kept watching, he would see himself promoted to Detective Inspector, just six months before Ravi himself received a similar promotion. Fourteen months before they worked together on the DeBrody case, seconded to Manchester CID. Fourteen months and three days before...
Jim hit the 'pause' button on the VCR.
Xxxxx
Daniel Connor had discovered the usefulness of listening outside doors at the age of eleven, when, outside his parents' bedroom, he had heard his father making love to a woman who was not his mother. Initially, this knowledge gained Daniel the BMX bike he had wanted. Because his father genuinely loved his mother, despite his little 'slip', it continued to gain Daniel things right up until university, when his father had gifted him with his first car. Not a grim second-hand chavmobile, either. A good car; a sports car. Michael Connor hadn't really been able to afford it. Daniel hadn't really cared. It was due payment for so many years of silence.
Listening outside Jim Keats' office, Daniel was equally hopeful of gaining information he could trade with. This time the payoff would be much greater than a bike or a car. So far, however, he had heard very little that he could make sense of. He was sure he had seen Nick Callaghan enter the office, and equally sure he had not seen him come out. And yet, even with his ear pressed to the door, Daniel could hear only Keats' voice. Was he talking to himself? That would not be a surprise; perhaps it was just the influence of what he had known about Keats outside in the real world, but in the short time Daniel had known him here, in this strange and haunted place, he had decided that despite his outward control, Keats was quite mad. Something deep inside of him was screaming fit to burst its throat, and what Daniel couldn't decide was which of those manifestations - the clever, manipulative man stalking Hunt like prey, or the shrieking, mindless creature within - was the real Keats.
Daniel thought he would have reason to find out, before all this was over.
Giving up on hearing anything useful from his little eavesdropping exercise, Daniel pulled himself out of the uncomfortable, crouching posture he'd adopted to listen at the door, stretching his muscles as he glanced around idly to make sure nobody was watching the watcher, as it were.
He wondered, with a jolt, how long the child had been standing there.
“What do you want?” he asked it, yet again, not really expecting an answer anymore. “Who are you?”
The child's pale eyes were riveted on Daniel's face. Did they see past his outward armour to the fear within?
“You hurt me.” It was a fluting whisper, more felt than heard. The boy's pallid lips never moved. “Why did you hurt me?”
“I didn't hurt you,” Daniel managed. The child took a small step towards him, and he stumbled back, bumping into the closed office door. One of the boy's hands was extended towards Daniel in a pleading gesture; the other clutched at a spreading red stain on his own stomach. And still the child kept coming.
“Hurts...” he whispered, again, the sound like a dying wind over a vast, empty plain.
“I didn't kill you!” Daniel all but shrieked. For a moment he thought it had worked; the child stopped moving, froze with his hand still extended, fingers inches from Daniel's sweat-slicked face. Then he began to gasp for breath, horribly, eyes bulging from his head, muscles convulsing in his desperation to get air into his lungs. The small body shook wildly, eyes rolling upward, pale skin turning a sickly, bluish shade; monstrous, wet choking noises bled from the tormented oval of the dying mouth.
Daniel closed his eyes.
The noises stopped.
He opened them again, slowly, cautiously.
The boy was still there, mouth and eyes wide open, a bluish-white finger extended and pointing at Daniel. As he watched, transfixed by the child's pale, dead stare, stagnant water gushed from the mouth, puddling on the floor, seeping towards the toes of Daniel's shoes. He closed his eyes again and moaned.
This time, when he opened them, the boy was gone.
Xxxxx
A thump against his office door made Jim stir from where he had been sitting with his face buried in his hands. He cocked his head, listening. The sound was not repeated; instead, a moment later, he heard a thin, anguished, very human noise coming from the other side of the door. Connor was seeing ghosts again. That was not Jim's responsibility; he had his own problems.
The distraction did, however, serve to shake him out of the near-fugue into which he had been sinking. Callaghan had left him this tape for a purpose. It was necessary to continue watching it, however uncomfortable the process might be. Ignoring the cry from outside his office door, he poured another glass of whiskey and hit 'play' again.
Then fast-forward. He couldn't bring himself to look at Ravi again; the shame was too much to bear.
Jim-on-the-tape, months later, looked much more like Jim-in-the-office. Not superficially: while Jim-in-the-office looked sharp and in control despite his inner discomfort, Jim-on-the-tape resembled some kind of folk musician the morning after a particularly heavy night before. His hair was unkempt, his skin sallow and slicked with sweat; the circles beneath his eyes had become vast purple shadows. His clothes looked unwashed, and hung on him limply. He wore no tie. Most importantly of all (as an indicator of his mental state, that is), he was perched precariously on the barrier of the Mancunian Way flyover, wind buffeting his already untidy hair, rain soaking into his unironed shirt.
His current troubles aside, the wind felt good. Liberating.
His hand fumbled in his pocket and he removed a small, white bottle. Without ceremony he upended it, watched with lifeless eyes as a scattering of tiny pills tumbled down to the fast road below.
“Hello.”
The voice behind him would have come as a surprise, gentle as it was, but Jim was beyond being startled; he was too tired. More tired than he had ever been in his life. His dazed mind vaguely wondered how he could get the pills back.
While he was wondering, the owner of the voice had crept closer. Jim turned slowly to see a familiar man, conservatively dressed, with calm, serious eyes, and hands outstretched in a placating gesture which confused Jim until he realised its meaning. Don't jump.
Had it been anyone else - a stranger - he might have laughed. Instead he made an attempt to scramble down from the barrier to the safety of the roadside.
“Sir. I was just...getting some air.”
“And you couldn't get enough of it on this side of the barrier?” He spoke lightly, belying his still-cautious extended hands, the careful way in which he slipped closer, as if creeping up on some wild animal which might bolt at any second.
“I, er...” Jim didn't have an answer. He shrugged and tried on a smile. It didn't feel right, and from the other man's reaction, didn't look right either.
“It's Jim, isn't it? DI Jim Keats, from the Metropolitan police. Working on the DeBrody drugs case.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We're off duty now, Jim. You can call me Sam.”
Jim nodded, though he had no intention of addressing a superior in such a familiar way.
“Mind if I join you?” Still that caution; talking down a jumper. This is all a stupid mistake. I wasn't going to jump, Jim thought. Was I?
“Nice evening,” DCI Tyler said, absurdly, leaning against the barrier and looking down at the cars speeding along the wet road below. He smiled, perhaps to show his comment had been a joke, despite the singular lack of humour in his voice.
“I just...” Jim cleared his throat and tried again, “I needed to get out for a while.”
“The operation's in two days, isn't it? I've been following your progress. You've worked hard to bring the DeBrody case to a conclusion. It's understandable to be nervous.”
You don't know the half of it, sir, Jim thought. Unless he did. Could that be it? Could Tyler be here to arrest him? Did they know?
He jumped when Sam spoke again, an apparent non sequiter: “you were fast-tracked, weren't you? You have a degree.”
“In psychology,” Jim agreed, realising how ridiculous that sounded coming from someone standing on a bridge in the dark and rain, looking like he'd just escaped from a psychiatric hospital.
“It can be stressful, rising through the ranks so quickly. There's a lot of pressure to do well, to prove yourself.”
“Yes, sir...Sam. That's true.”
A more comfortable silence. Then, “I had a phone call from your immediate superior at the Met. DCI Cooper.”
Badger Breath, Jim thought, and with effort bit back a wild laugh.
“I've also been talking to a friend of yours. DI Shoker.”
Jim lost all desire to laugh. Rav, what have you said?
“He's a bit worried about you. They both are. They think you're working too hard, expecting too much of yourself.”
“Sorry, sir,” Jim gripped the metal rail before him very hard, not wanting Tyler to see his hands shaking, “but why were they talking to you? We hardly know each other.”
“Gwen Cooper's an old acquaintance of mine,” Tyler explained. “She used to work up here in Manchester before her promotion. To be honest, Jim, she's concerned that she might have been putting too much on you, too soon. Nobody doubts your ability, but from what your friend Ravinder said, you've been working long days and hardly sleeping, for months now. It all adds up, Jim. Take it from me, you don't want to burn out. You've got a brilliant future ahead of you in the Met. Don't risk it.”
Jim stared silently into the oncoming night. The cars that raced by below all had their headlights on now, marking the damp road with slicks of nauseating, unnatural yellow. Perhaps Tyler mistook his stiff posture for anger, because he said,
“I know you think I'm interfering, and you're probably annoyed that your friends have been talking to me, but listen - I'm on your side. I've been there, in your place, trying to do too much and suffering for it. Trust me, you don't want to go there, DI Keats.”
Jim didn't answer. No, he didn't want to go there; it was just that he had no choice. His shoulders slumped wearily; Tyler, noticing this as he appeared to notice everything, placed a warm hand lightly on his stooped back.
“Let's just let it go for now, then. All I'm really saying is - if you need someone to talk to...”
For a mad, beautiful moment, Jim considered it: telling DCI Tyler everything, making a clean breast of things. It would be the end of his career, but perhaps - just perhaps - he might be able to get his life back. Get himself back.
Jim-in-the-office, Jim-the-thousand-times-damned, wondered what would have happened had he taken up Sam Tyler on his generous offer. He would not be here now, that was for certain. Perhaps neither of them would ever have met Gene Hunt. Jim-on-the-bridge, however, toyed with the idea for a fraction of a second before letting it go, releasing it to be buffeted and snatched away by the wind. He smiled tiredly and said,
“Thank you, Sam.”
And then they went their separate ways. Jim had spoken to Sam just once since then - he was still waiting for his answer.
xxxx
A violent crash startled Jim awake. He sat up, blinking stupidly; still mired in the remnants of his dream, he mumbled, “Sam?”
Gene Hunt, standing in the doorway, raised a quizzical and none-too-pleased eyebrow. At first Jim thought he had heard the familiar name...and then Hunt said,
“Where's my whiskey, you thieving little scrotum?”
Jim handed over the empty hipflask with a shrug. Hunt growled at him, made a half-hearted lunge across the desk, then paused. Perhaps he had seen how bloodshot Jim's eyes were, or how his hand had shaken just a little as he passed the flask across; perhaps he simply couldn't be bothered, at this time of night, to work up the energy required to give a colleague a good pasting.
“Luigi's,” Gene grunted, instead. “Wouldn't bother asking you, but Cartwright insisted. He's like a ruddy schoolgirl with a crush.”
Jim smiled vaguely at that - he rather liked Arnie, with his silly hair and wide, trusting eyes - but said, “no, thanks. Some of us have paperwork to do.”
Hunt looked down at him for a moment, green eyes narrowed. After a moment he shrugged. “Please yourself. I'd just as soon not have you there, lurking in the shadows like some sort of unholy cross between a crap policeman and a vampire.”
He turned to go. Before he could close the door, something made Jim ask quietly,
“Have you ever found yourself between a rock and a hard place, Gene?”
“No. I don't go to that kind of nightclub.”
“You know what I mean.” Jim lit up a smoke and offered the pack to Gene. With an expression of almost comical suspicion, as if it might explode in his mouth, Gene took one and allowed Jim to light it for him.
“Have you ever felt caught between two equal and opposing forces?” Jim went on, “knowing that whichever path you choose...you can't win. You're damned, either way.”
“Certainly. It's like going to the pub, or not going to the pub. If I go, I'll have a hangover. If I don't, I'll be sober. Buggered either way. Know which one I prefer, though.”
Jim shook his head. “You have a gift for bringing the most profound philosophical questions down to gutter-level, don't you?”
“I was top of the class in it at school.”
They smoked in silence for a moment, until Gene said, “what the bloody hell are you on about, Jimbo?”
“I used to have this friend, as a kid. He was quiet, intelligent, polite, and helpful. A nice lad all round. And then his parents split up. He agonised over which side to choose - whether to live with Mum or Dad, which would be best, who was most deserving of his loyalty. In the end, he realised it didn't matter, because while they wanted very different things from their lives, neither of them wanted him.”
Gene smoked his cigarette and didn't say anything except, “is that another meta-whatsit?”
Jim smiled thinly. “Work it out for yourself.”
“Well, it's a very interesting story, Jimbo, but it's not getting us drunk, is it? Come on. Sod paperwork. We'll persuade Luigi to give us a lock-in.” He got to his feet, reached over the desk and unceremoniously dragged Jim up, as well.
As Gene's hand clamped around his arm, something peculiar happened. A curious tingling coolness - entirely unlike the burning dry heat of Nick Callaghan's touch - spread out from the point of contact until it seemed to engulf Jim's whole body. Instead of pulling away, it made him want to move closer. For the briefest instant he wanted to grab Gene, cling to him and not let go until that strange and wonderful energy had suffused him completely, drowning the fiery, spitting monster inside of him once and for all. Had the others felt this, he wondered? Alex, Ray, Chris and Shaz? Sam Tyler? Had they all been seduced by this absurd feeling that somehow, staying close to Gene would make everything turn out all right?
If Hunt noticed Jim's momentary confusion, he didn't remark upon it. As he shooed Jim out into the cool of the corridor, however, he asked,
“Jimbo. What happened to that friend of yours, in the end?”
“It was a tragic story,” Jim said blandly. “He went bad ways, got into drugs, ended up killing himself.”
“Oh. Very sad.”
“You don't look sad.”
“No, but I'm crying like a little girl on the inside, believe me.”
Jim snorted. “What a sympathetic nature.”
Gene huffed, “haven't ever had much time for junkies, and blokes who off themselves, Jim.”
“Believe me when I say,” Jim replied, his voice full of meaning, “that I'm well aware of that.”
Hunt eyed him for a moment. Jim, regarding him calmly, saw the exact instant when he decided to let the comment go unquestioned. He did a lot of that sort of thing, did Gene Hunt.
“Come on. I'll buy you a glass of poncy Chardonnay. If I get you pissed enough, perhaps you'll let me write something in your filofax. That would be thrilling.”
“I'm a naturally exciting person,” agreed Jim, locking his office door behind them. “In fact, I'm on fire.”
On to Part VI: The frying pan of purgatory.