Betrayal challenge - Fi
TITLE: The Ninth Circle
AUTHOR: Fionnabair
FANDOM: Life on Mars
SUMMARY: Who betrays the traitors?
RATING: Red Cortina, slash
WARNINGS: Violence, non-con
WORD COUNT: 1937
EMAIL: fiandyfic@livejournal.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For 1973flashfic Betrayal Challenge. Inspired by an absurd email conversation with m31andy who also kindly beta’d this. Part of the Hookerverse.
DISCLAIMER: Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
The Ninth Circle
“Oi! Tyler! You useless bum! Get in here!”
Sam Tyler pulled himself off the park bench and walked over to the Cortina that had screeched to a halt at the side of the road.
“What?”
“I said, get your arse in here. NOW! What are you waiting for, a butler to open the door for you?”
Shrugging, Sam slowly opened the door and got into the car. He hadn't sat in this car for six months and never thought he would again.
Six months ago, his life had been perfect. He had a job he loved, a boss who frustrated him as much as he respected him, a good team, good mates and a tentative relationship with a beautiful woman. Then it had all disintegrated.
One day, he'd been dipping through old files, noticing some disturbing trends that looked like they might be relevant in a nasty murder case - a girl's body had been found in the Ship Canal and she wasn't the first they'd found there over the years - the next he'd been out on his ear, accused of corruption, given an “easy offer” - no prosecution in turn for his departure - out the door, no pension, no payoff, no life.
None of his mates would talk to him. Annie had looked horrified and upset and hadn't even been able to look him in the eye. The rest of the team acted as if he didn't exist. Nelson had eyed him up the one time he walked into The Railway Arms, refused to serve him and then banned him. The one time he'd tried to raise the issue, he'd been bodily escorted from the police station and a chief superintendent had formally warned him that if he repeated those allegations again, the Manchester police would assist the respected officer involved in suing for defamation and were he to persist after a writ, perjury was a criminal offence. A DCI had been considerably less formal and had completed the warning-off process in a more physical way.
Sam had hit the bottle, and the bottle was the one thing in his life that didn't seem to hit back. At least not as badly. He lost his flat, scummy though it was, had slept rough for a bit, and finally managed to get a tiny room in a dosshouse. No-one would employ him. The jobs for which he might have been qualified were out of bounds due to his sacking by the police, and the word seemed to have gone around and he couldn't even get labourer's work.
And now, out of the blue, Gene Hunt had driven up beside the bench on which he sat most days and ordered him into his car.
“What's all this about? Found another way to kick me?” he demanded.
“You were a bloody fool, Tyler,” said Gene. “But I'm not leaving you out on the streets. I don't want to have to do the paperwork because my hypocritical little git of a DI who used to do it got himself killed on the streets after being tossed off the force for being a corrupt bastard.”
The car drew up outside a dilapidated house.
“So this is where you live?” Gene commented. “It's even worse than your last place.”
“Yeah, well, beggars can't be choosers,” muttered Sam. “What now?”
“Now, sunshine, you are going upstairs, having a wash - you stink, did you know that? - and a shave, getting changed and I'm taking you to the Flamingo Club, where apparently they're in need of a barman. I called in some favours for you, so don't screw it up.”
Gene didn't move from his perch on Sam's bed - the only place to sit in the tiny room - when Sam came back from the bathroom. Sam was practically brushing past his former boss each time he moved to fetch his clothes and Gene didn't look away.
“Honest, Guv, it'd be easier if you waited outside,” he said.
“I'm not your guv, so don't call me that anymore. You're not fit to call me that,” snapped Gene. “And I'm fine here.”
Irritated, Sam dropped the towel he was wearing. Gene didn't blink, and just continued his steady gaze at Sam.
“What? Do you like what you see, Gene?” spat Sam.
“Just checking you hadn't fallen as low as you might,” was the contemptuous reply. “I see the dealers haven't got their mucky little paws on you yet. Now get a move on, I can't stay here all day.”
Sam was silent in the car on the brief trip to the club.
“The manager's called Jack Evans. He's expecting you,” was all Gene said as he drew up outside the Flamingo, which had clearly seen better days.
The job had been set up for him, and Evans' sole reaction was to tell Sam the hours, and point him in the direction of the bar.
The club filled up rapidly that night, and Sam was kept busy. From what he could see, it was still a popular spot despite - or possibly because - of its seedy atmosphere. The bar was kept busy all night.
“Sam!” yelled Evans around midnight. “Over here!”
He took Sam by the arm and pointed him at a tray, with three bottles of champagne and six glasses.
“VIP room,” he bellowed over the near-deafening music, pointing at a narrow staircase in one corner of the room. “Go up and serve them. Tell them it's with the boss's compliments.”
There were two rooms at the top of the stairs, one leading into the other. The outer room was bare and empty, but Sam could hear voices from the inner room. He moved forward, balancing the heavy tray.
“Compliments of the boss,” he said to the group of five men in the room. They looked up expectantly.
“Go on, then, open it,” said one of them, and grinned at his friends. Sam obediently opened two of the bottles and poured five glasses, passing around the group with the tray.
“I see they sent up an extra glass,” commented another. “Have one yourself. What's your name?”
“Sam,” he said briefly and poured himself half a glass. “Thanks.”
One of the men got up and stood next to Sam, too close for comfort.
“So you're new here, Sam, are you? How are you finding it?” he asked.
“Fine, thank you,” he replied.
The man moved in closer, almost touching Sam, and one of his friends joined them. Sam suddenly realised that his way to the door was blocked, and they were looking at him strangely.
“Compliments of the management,” one of them laughed, and suddenly Sam found himself surrounded by the five men, moving in closer and closer. A hand reached out and cupped his arse while another one reached for his face, almost caressing it.
“Look, um, I don't...” he said in a panicked tone.
“Oh, I think you do,” one of them grinned and pulled Sam towards him.
Sam woke up, aching all over, face down in the filthy carpet. He only had vague memories of the night before, of being surrounded, of fighting and losing, of pain and humiliation, and being held down and husky gasps of “fuck he's tight” and “my turn”. His jaw ached and he could feel the bruises from where one of the men forced his mouth open and held it there while he thrust inside.
He hurt even more in other places.
“Get up, Tyler, you're not killed.”
He looked up blearily, to see Phyllis standing over him. She was as uncompromising at six in the morning in the upstairs room of a nightclub as she was at noon behind her desk at the police station.
Sam tried to lift himself up, but collapsed back onto the carpet. The room stank of booze and smoke and sweat and his head was aching. “Oh God, I was right,” he gasped.
“Stand up!” she barked and he struggled to obey. He found himself straightening up under her gaze, acutely aware of his nudity, the cuts and bruises on his body and the dried blood on his thighs.
She stared for a moment.
“Well, they were pleased with you. Well done, Tyler, you've still got a job. Now go and get clean. You stink.”
He didn't move, frozen in shock.
“Did you hear me?”
“He's basking in the afterglow, love, give him a moment.” Gene Hunt strode into the room behind Phyllis. “Get your clothes on, Tyler, I'll drive you home.”
Sam didn't move. He wanted to hit out at the pair who were once his friends for what they had done to him, but he couldn't move. Gene moved impatiently over to a chair and picked up some clothes.
“Shirt's ripped, but it'll do,” he commented, and tossed Sam's clothes at him. Some notes fell from them.
“Oooh, they were very pleased with you,” he sneered, with a tinge of surprise in his voice. “You can keep your tip, they already settled up with the management.”
Sam didn't know how he got his clothes on. Gene grasped his upper arm and walked him through the club. No-one looked in their direction and Phyllis followed.
“You can have tonight off, Tyler,” she said. “Be back here tomorrow night.”
Once in the car, Sam looked wildly out the window, wondering how he could escape.
“Well, you've got a new career,” said Gene nastily. “Should suit you better.”
“I won't,” said Sam desperately. “I'll...”
“You'll what?” demanded Hunt. “Run away? There's a lot of bad men out there with bad memories of DI Sam Tyler who'll be only too happy to find you unprotected.”
“Police,” gasped Sam.
“Yeah, right, who'll believe you? Phyllis runs the gaff. The Chief Constable would take her word even before the combined testimony of a chief superintendent and a nun, and he certainly won't believe a bent copper who's become a rent boy. You know what happened last time you tried that little trick. We can have you banged up so fast, where you'll be giving out for free what you can get paid for here for the rest of your life. Your poncy mates in Hyde won't help you, not after you betrayed them. Even they wouldn't believe it of Phyllis. She's Teflon. Nothing sticks to her.”
Sam leaned against the passenger window, shaking. Gene looked over and his voice grew gentler.
“On the other hand, if you're a good lad, you can live the life of Riley. Phyllis will take care of you, you'll earn decent money and you'll be safe. Fair deal. Last night was a bit different - she got offered a lot to supply something special to those boys and well, you can't blame her if she wanted a bit of revenge. You caused her some grief with your sniffing around. She's straight with her girls if they're straight with her.”
“Her girls?”
“Well, I suppose she's got a boy as well now. She's had her eye on you for a while. Said you were too pretty to be a copper.”
They had reached Sam's building now and Gene nodded at it. “We'll sort you out with something better in a few days, but stay there for the moment. Don't try and run, Tyler. If the bad boys don't find you, we will.”
Sam opened the door and got out stiffly. He felt cold, frozen, as if he would never be warm again. He turned around and leaned into the car.
“You betrayed me,” he hissed with his last spark of defiance.
“Yeah, well, you betrayed us first, Sammy-boy. Don't you ever forget that.”
AUTHOR: Fionnabair
FANDOM: Life on Mars
SUMMARY: Who betrays the traitors?
RATING: Red Cortina, slash
WARNINGS: Violence, non-con
WORD COUNT: 1937
EMAIL: fiandyfic@livejournal.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For 1973flashfic Betrayal Challenge. Inspired by an absurd email conversation with m31andy who also kindly beta’d this. Part of the Hookerverse.
DISCLAIMER: Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
The Ninth Circle
“Oi! Tyler! You useless bum! Get in here!”
Sam Tyler pulled himself off the park bench and walked over to the Cortina that had screeched to a halt at the side of the road.
“What?”
“I said, get your arse in here. NOW! What are you waiting for, a butler to open the door for you?”
Shrugging, Sam slowly opened the door and got into the car. He hadn't sat in this car for six months and never thought he would again.
Six months ago, his life had been perfect. He had a job he loved, a boss who frustrated him as much as he respected him, a good team, good mates and a tentative relationship with a beautiful woman. Then it had all disintegrated.
One day, he'd been dipping through old files, noticing some disturbing trends that looked like they might be relevant in a nasty murder case - a girl's body had been found in the Ship Canal and she wasn't the first they'd found there over the years - the next he'd been out on his ear, accused of corruption, given an “easy offer” - no prosecution in turn for his departure - out the door, no pension, no payoff, no life.
None of his mates would talk to him. Annie had looked horrified and upset and hadn't even been able to look him in the eye. The rest of the team acted as if he didn't exist. Nelson had eyed him up the one time he walked into The Railway Arms, refused to serve him and then banned him. The one time he'd tried to raise the issue, he'd been bodily escorted from the police station and a chief superintendent had formally warned him that if he repeated those allegations again, the Manchester police would assist the respected officer involved in suing for defamation and were he to persist after a writ, perjury was a criminal offence. A DCI had been considerably less formal and had completed the warning-off process in a more physical way.
Sam had hit the bottle, and the bottle was the one thing in his life that didn't seem to hit back. At least not as badly. He lost his flat, scummy though it was, had slept rough for a bit, and finally managed to get a tiny room in a dosshouse. No-one would employ him. The jobs for which he might have been qualified were out of bounds due to his sacking by the police, and the word seemed to have gone around and he couldn't even get labourer's work.
And now, out of the blue, Gene Hunt had driven up beside the bench on which he sat most days and ordered him into his car.
“What's all this about? Found another way to kick me?” he demanded.
“You were a bloody fool, Tyler,” said Gene. “But I'm not leaving you out on the streets. I don't want to have to do the paperwork because my hypocritical little git of a DI who used to do it got himself killed on the streets after being tossed off the force for being a corrupt bastard.”
The car drew up outside a dilapidated house.
“So this is where you live?” Gene commented. “It's even worse than your last place.”
“Yeah, well, beggars can't be choosers,” muttered Sam. “What now?”
“Now, sunshine, you are going upstairs, having a wash - you stink, did you know that? - and a shave, getting changed and I'm taking you to the Flamingo Club, where apparently they're in need of a barman. I called in some favours for you, so don't screw it up.”
Gene didn't move from his perch on Sam's bed - the only place to sit in the tiny room - when Sam came back from the bathroom. Sam was practically brushing past his former boss each time he moved to fetch his clothes and Gene didn't look away.
“Honest, Guv, it'd be easier if you waited outside,” he said.
“I'm not your guv, so don't call me that anymore. You're not fit to call me that,” snapped Gene. “And I'm fine here.”
Irritated, Sam dropped the towel he was wearing. Gene didn't blink, and just continued his steady gaze at Sam.
“What? Do you like what you see, Gene?” spat Sam.
“Just checking you hadn't fallen as low as you might,” was the contemptuous reply. “I see the dealers haven't got their mucky little paws on you yet. Now get a move on, I can't stay here all day.”
Sam was silent in the car on the brief trip to the club.
“The manager's called Jack Evans. He's expecting you,” was all Gene said as he drew up outside the Flamingo, which had clearly seen better days.
The job had been set up for him, and Evans' sole reaction was to tell Sam the hours, and point him in the direction of the bar.
The club filled up rapidly that night, and Sam was kept busy. From what he could see, it was still a popular spot despite - or possibly because - of its seedy atmosphere. The bar was kept busy all night.
“Sam!” yelled Evans around midnight. “Over here!”
He took Sam by the arm and pointed him at a tray, with three bottles of champagne and six glasses.
“VIP room,” he bellowed over the near-deafening music, pointing at a narrow staircase in one corner of the room. “Go up and serve them. Tell them it's with the boss's compliments.”
There were two rooms at the top of the stairs, one leading into the other. The outer room was bare and empty, but Sam could hear voices from the inner room. He moved forward, balancing the heavy tray.
“Compliments of the boss,” he said to the group of five men in the room. They looked up expectantly.
“Go on, then, open it,” said one of them, and grinned at his friends. Sam obediently opened two of the bottles and poured five glasses, passing around the group with the tray.
“I see they sent up an extra glass,” commented another. “Have one yourself. What's your name?”
“Sam,” he said briefly and poured himself half a glass. “Thanks.”
One of the men got up and stood next to Sam, too close for comfort.
“So you're new here, Sam, are you? How are you finding it?” he asked.
“Fine, thank you,” he replied.
The man moved in closer, almost touching Sam, and one of his friends joined them. Sam suddenly realised that his way to the door was blocked, and they were looking at him strangely.
“Compliments of the management,” one of them laughed, and suddenly Sam found himself surrounded by the five men, moving in closer and closer. A hand reached out and cupped his arse while another one reached for his face, almost caressing it.
“Look, um, I don't...” he said in a panicked tone.
“Oh, I think you do,” one of them grinned and pulled Sam towards him.
Sam woke up, aching all over, face down in the filthy carpet. He only had vague memories of the night before, of being surrounded, of fighting and losing, of pain and humiliation, and being held down and husky gasps of “fuck he's tight” and “my turn”. His jaw ached and he could feel the bruises from where one of the men forced his mouth open and held it there while he thrust inside.
He hurt even more in other places.
“Get up, Tyler, you're not killed.”
He looked up blearily, to see Phyllis standing over him. She was as uncompromising at six in the morning in the upstairs room of a nightclub as she was at noon behind her desk at the police station.
Sam tried to lift himself up, but collapsed back onto the carpet. The room stank of booze and smoke and sweat and his head was aching. “Oh God, I was right,” he gasped.
“Stand up!” she barked and he struggled to obey. He found himself straightening up under her gaze, acutely aware of his nudity, the cuts and bruises on his body and the dried blood on his thighs.
She stared for a moment.
“Well, they were pleased with you. Well done, Tyler, you've still got a job. Now go and get clean. You stink.”
He didn't move, frozen in shock.
“Did you hear me?”
“He's basking in the afterglow, love, give him a moment.” Gene Hunt strode into the room behind Phyllis. “Get your clothes on, Tyler, I'll drive you home.”
Sam didn't move. He wanted to hit out at the pair who were once his friends for what they had done to him, but he couldn't move. Gene moved impatiently over to a chair and picked up some clothes.
“Shirt's ripped, but it'll do,” he commented, and tossed Sam's clothes at him. Some notes fell from them.
“Oooh, they were very pleased with you,” he sneered, with a tinge of surprise in his voice. “You can keep your tip, they already settled up with the management.”
Sam didn't know how he got his clothes on. Gene grasped his upper arm and walked him through the club. No-one looked in their direction and Phyllis followed.
“You can have tonight off, Tyler,” she said. “Be back here tomorrow night.”
Once in the car, Sam looked wildly out the window, wondering how he could escape.
“Well, you've got a new career,” said Gene nastily. “Should suit you better.”
“I won't,” said Sam desperately. “I'll...”
“You'll what?” demanded Hunt. “Run away? There's a lot of bad men out there with bad memories of DI Sam Tyler who'll be only too happy to find you unprotected.”
“Police,” gasped Sam.
“Yeah, right, who'll believe you? Phyllis runs the gaff. The Chief Constable would take her word even before the combined testimony of a chief superintendent and a nun, and he certainly won't believe a bent copper who's become a rent boy. You know what happened last time you tried that little trick. We can have you banged up so fast, where you'll be giving out for free what you can get paid for here for the rest of your life. Your poncy mates in Hyde won't help you, not after you betrayed them. Even they wouldn't believe it of Phyllis. She's Teflon. Nothing sticks to her.”
Sam leaned against the passenger window, shaking. Gene looked over and his voice grew gentler.
“On the other hand, if you're a good lad, you can live the life of Riley. Phyllis will take care of you, you'll earn decent money and you'll be safe. Fair deal. Last night was a bit different - she got offered a lot to supply something special to those boys and well, you can't blame her if she wanted a bit of revenge. You caused her some grief with your sniffing around. She's straight with her girls if they're straight with her.”
“Her girls?”
“Well, I suppose she's got a boy as well now. She's had her eye on you for a while. Said you were too pretty to be a copper.”
They had reached Sam's building now and Gene nodded at it. “We'll sort you out with something better in a few days, but stay there for the moment. Don't try and run, Tyler. If the bad boys don't find you, we will.”
Sam opened the door and got out stiffly. He felt cold, frozen, as if he would never be warm again. He turned around and leaned into the car.
“You betrayed me,” he hissed with his last spark of defiance.
“Yeah, well, you betrayed us first, Sammy-boy. Don't you ever forget that.”