Spit and promise by fawsley, angsty blue cortina with Gene, Ruth, Little Sammy, Sam
Title: Spit and promise
Author: fawsley
Characters: Gene, Ruth Tyler, Little Sammy, Sam
Rating: angsty blue cortina
Warnings: wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff
Word Count: 1050
Disclaimer: All the property of the BBC and Kudos
Note: A while back in an exchange of emails with someone but I've forgotten who (sorry!) mikes_grrl (and thus she is most definitely not blameless) I fessed up to having spent much of my childhood pretending to be a detective, wearing my sister's raincoat and mum's shades, noting down the neighbours' number plates, thinking I was being very secretive but of course making the whole street hoot with laughter. This generated thoughts of Little Sammy playing detectives and a possible fic involving Gene. It was supposed to be funny but I'm afraid it turned out to be anything but.
Spit and promise
Nice woman, Mrs Tyler. Not exactly a chore, having to go round and talk through her husband’s disappearance. Cup of tea and a biscuit, bit of cake if he’s lucky. Better afternoon’s work than fishing corpses out of the canal. Might find it necessary to visit again, just once or twice, a stress-free oasis in the cesspit that is Mancunian crime.
He’s probably mixing up his whatsits again but Sam’s not there to be a picky pain correcting him. Best not to let Sam come along at all on these visits. Gets far too jumpy about names and dates, would only start off on one of those rants about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Too much to take for everyone involved, specially when all he wants is a quiet afternoon chatting to a pretty and attentive woman.
Making his farewells to the delightful Mrs Tyler, brushing Battenberg crumbs from his coat, he finds the Cortina the subject of very close scrutiny.
‘Hey up! You thinkin’ of doin’ me for parkin’ on a double yeller?’
The notebook-wielding official regards him seriously, pauses in recording some semblance of the number plate in very large, very bad handwriting.
‘No. Ain’t no yellow lines here so I can’t an’ anyway I’m a ‘tective an’ ‘tectives don’t do that.’
‘So what are you detecting today, then?’
‘Strange car. I know all the cars in our street. Writin’ down the number in case it’s a clue.’
‘What’s the mystery?’
‘Where my daddy’s gone.’
It’s the Tyler brat, the one Sam gets so damned het up about. He’s still formulating a reply but the kid doesn’t seem to expect one.
‘I’m goin' to be a ‘tective when I grow up. I’ll find out where my daddy’s gone an’ put all the bad people in prison...’
He still doesn’t know what to say but then Mrs Tyler reappears at her front door.
‘Sam!’
‘…cos I wanted to be a pleeceman but mummy says ‘tectives are more important than pleecemen so I’m goin’ to be…’
‘Sammy!’
‘…goin’ to be a ‘tective but I won’t wear a uniform cos ‘tectives don’t which is sad but…’
‘Sam Tyler will you stop annoying Detective Hunt and come inside this minute!’
The kid stops yammering and stares at him hard.
‘You really a ‘tective?’
He nods slowly.
‘Yeah, I’m a ‘tective. Dunno if I’m a very good one though.’
Suddenly all he can see are huge hazel eyes and an ear-to-ear grin that almost splits the little face in two.
‘Sammy!’
‘Coming!’
The kid goes to leave but then turns back once more.
‘When I grow up I’m goin’ to be the bestest ‘tective in the world ever!’
Mrs Tyler is almost upon them, finger wagging at her errant son.
‘Bestest ever! Promise you! Spit and promise!’
Sammy Tyler spits on his hand and holds it out to be shaken.
‘Oh Sammy don’t! Sorry - he’s heard me say ‘spit and polish’ and got it all wrong, haven’t you Sammy? Where’s your hankie? Wipe your hand and don’t do that ever again.’
But Gene is already grasping the proffered hand and clasping it tightly.
‘Spit and promise’ he mutters. ‘Spit and promise, bestest ‘tective…’
‘Bye bye!’ Sammy yells as he’s towed away home. ‘See you again soon!’
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
He lets himself in to Sam’s flat, knows that there’s some serious supper going to be had from the noise and smells emanating from the kitchen. Following his nose he finds his man, who looks up from stirring a very sizzling something and suddenly all he can see are huge hazel eyes and an ear-to-ear grin that almost splits Sam’s face in two.
‘You’re late! Didn’t know if I was ever going to see you again!
Gene is subjected to a growl and a grope and long report on what he’s missed at the station this afternoon. Usually he’d be all ears and sarcastic gob, but this evening he doesn’t hear a thing, doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t do anything until Sam flicks him with a tea-towel and demands to know what’s up.
‘Sam… When you was a kid…’
‘Yeah?’
‘Did yer, well… Did yer always want to be a detective?’
Sam snorts and multitasks busily. Gene finds the whisky and a seat, feels he’s going to need both close at hand in the very near future.
‘Just wanted to be a policeman at first, but then later a detective, yeah, when I knew what one was. Only thing I ever wanted to be. No idea what I’d’ve done if I hadn’t gone into the force.’
‘Why? Why a detective?’
Sam stills and looks serious, voice drops, quieter now.
‘When… After… When my dad disappeared… Police involvement, detectives coming round the house…’
He stares out of the kitchen window into the gathering gloom of an urban evening.
‘Dunno quite, anymore. Just seemed… Wanting to get my dad back… Thinking I could find him… You know…’
Sam’s voice tails off and he goes back to stirring whatever is in the pan a great deal more vigorously than it probably requires.
‘Have some vague memory of, I dunno, promising someone something…’
‘Spit and promise…’
Gene’s voice is an incredibly unsteady whisper.
‘What?
‘Spit and promise…’
Sam turns and stares. They’re both as white as each other.
‘How the hell…? How the fuck d’yer know about that? I’d forgotten all about that… How the fuck…?’
‘Bestest ‘tective in the world ever.’
Gene is shaking so hard he slops almost as much whisky onto the table as into his glass, is shaking so hard he can’t get the glass up to his mouth, gives up trying and curls his hand in to his chest instead.
‘Spit and promise, Sammy. You promised…’
Sam collapses into the other chair and swigs straight from the bottle, stares hard at Gene, neither of them able to speak because what the hell is there to say?
After what might be moments, what might be hours, what might be thirty three years, Gene uncurls his hand and holds it out warily, searches Sam’s face for something, anything, Christ only knows what, watches as Sam slowly reaches out to return the grasp.
Swears he can feel a child’s saliva damp on the skin of his palm.
o0o
Follow-up piece here.
Author: fawsley
Characters: Gene, Ruth Tyler, Little Sammy, Sam
Rating: angsty blue cortina
Warnings: wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff
Word Count: 1050
Disclaimer: All the property of the BBC and Kudos
Note: A while back in an exchange of emails with someone but I've forgotten who (sorry!) mikes_grrl (and thus she is most definitely not blameless) I fessed up to having spent much of my childhood pretending to be a detective, wearing my sister's raincoat and mum's shades, noting down the neighbours' number plates, thinking I was being very secretive but of course making the whole street hoot with laughter. This generated thoughts of Little Sammy playing detectives and a possible fic involving Gene. It was supposed to be funny but I'm afraid it turned out to be anything but.
Spit and promise
Nice woman, Mrs Tyler. Not exactly a chore, having to go round and talk through her husband’s disappearance. Cup of tea and a biscuit, bit of cake if he’s lucky. Better afternoon’s work than fishing corpses out of the canal. Might find it necessary to visit again, just once or twice, a stress-free oasis in the cesspit that is Mancunian crime.
He’s probably mixing up his whatsits again but Sam’s not there to be a picky pain correcting him. Best not to let Sam come along at all on these visits. Gets far too jumpy about names and dates, would only start off on one of those rants about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Too much to take for everyone involved, specially when all he wants is a quiet afternoon chatting to a pretty and attentive woman.
Making his farewells to the delightful Mrs Tyler, brushing Battenberg crumbs from his coat, he finds the Cortina the subject of very close scrutiny.
‘Hey up! You thinkin’ of doin’ me for parkin’ on a double yeller?’
The notebook-wielding official regards him seriously, pauses in recording some semblance of the number plate in very large, very bad handwriting.
‘No. Ain’t no yellow lines here so I can’t an’ anyway I’m a ‘tective an’ ‘tectives don’t do that.’
‘So what are you detecting today, then?’
‘Strange car. I know all the cars in our street. Writin’ down the number in case it’s a clue.’
‘What’s the mystery?’
‘Where my daddy’s gone.’
It’s the Tyler brat, the one Sam gets so damned het up about. He’s still formulating a reply but the kid doesn’t seem to expect one.
‘I’m goin' to be a ‘tective when I grow up. I’ll find out where my daddy’s gone an’ put all the bad people in prison...’
He still doesn’t know what to say but then Mrs Tyler reappears at her front door.
‘Sam!’
‘…cos I wanted to be a pleeceman but mummy says ‘tectives are more important than pleecemen so I’m goin’ to be…’
‘Sammy!’
‘…goin’ to be a ‘tective but I won’t wear a uniform cos ‘tectives don’t which is sad but…’
‘Sam Tyler will you stop annoying Detective Hunt and come inside this minute!’
The kid stops yammering and stares at him hard.
‘You really a ‘tective?’
He nods slowly.
‘Yeah, I’m a ‘tective. Dunno if I’m a very good one though.’
Suddenly all he can see are huge hazel eyes and an ear-to-ear grin that almost splits the little face in two.
‘Sammy!’
‘Coming!’
The kid goes to leave but then turns back once more.
‘When I grow up I’m goin’ to be the bestest ‘tective in the world ever!’
Mrs Tyler is almost upon them, finger wagging at her errant son.
‘Bestest ever! Promise you! Spit and promise!’
Sammy Tyler spits on his hand and holds it out to be shaken.
‘Oh Sammy don’t! Sorry - he’s heard me say ‘spit and polish’ and got it all wrong, haven’t you Sammy? Where’s your hankie? Wipe your hand and don’t do that ever again.’
But Gene is already grasping the proffered hand and clasping it tightly.
‘Spit and promise’ he mutters. ‘Spit and promise, bestest ‘tective…’
‘Bye bye!’ Sammy yells as he’s towed away home. ‘See you again soon!’
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
He lets himself in to Sam’s flat, knows that there’s some serious supper going to be had from the noise and smells emanating from the kitchen. Following his nose he finds his man, who looks up from stirring a very sizzling something and suddenly all he can see are huge hazel eyes and an ear-to-ear grin that almost splits Sam’s face in two.
‘You’re late! Didn’t know if I was ever going to see you again!
Gene is subjected to a growl and a grope and long report on what he’s missed at the station this afternoon. Usually he’d be all ears and sarcastic gob, but this evening he doesn’t hear a thing, doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t do anything until Sam flicks him with a tea-towel and demands to know what’s up.
‘Sam… When you was a kid…’
‘Yeah?’
‘Did yer, well… Did yer always want to be a detective?’
Sam snorts and multitasks busily. Gene finds the whisky and a seat, feels he’s going to need both close at hand in the very near future.
‘Just wanted to be a policeman at first, but then later a detective, yeah, when I knew what one was. Only thing I ever wanted to be. No idea what I’d’ve done if I hadn’t gone into the force.’
‘Why? Why a detective?’
Sam stills and looks serious, voice drops, quieter now.
‘When… After… When my dad disappeared… Police involvement, detectives coming round the house…’
He stares out of the kitchen window into the gathering gloom of an urban evening.
‘Dunno quite, anymore. Just seemed… Wanting to get my dad back… Thinking I could find him… You know…’
Sam’s voice tails off and he goes back to stirring whatever is in the pan a great deal more vigorously than it probably requires.
‘Have some vague memory of, I dunno, promising someone something…’
‘Spit and promise…’
Gene’s voice is an incredibly unsteady whisper.
‘What?
‘Spit and promise…’
Sam turns and stares. They’re both as white as each other.
‘How the hell…? How the fuck d’yer know about that? I’d forgotten all about that… How the fuck…?’
‘Bestest ‘tective in the world ever.’
Gene is shaking so hard he slops almost as much whisky onto the table as into his glass, is shaking so hard he can’t get the glass up to his mouth, gives up trying and curls his hand in to his chest instead.
‘Spit and promise, Sammy. You promised…’
Sam collapses into the other chair and swigs straight from the bottle, stares hard at Gene, neither of them able to speak because what the hell is there to say?
After what might be moments, what might be hours, what might be thirty three years, Gene uncurls his hand and holds it out warily, searches Sam’s face for something, anything, Christ only knows what, watches as Sam slowly reaches out to return the grasp.
Swears he can feel a child’s saliva damp on the skin of his palm.
o0o
Follow-up piece here.