Fic: Jabberwocky, Part 12a/?

[sytaxia]

Sam awoke to a continuation of the strange, howling noises, winds whipping through the branches of the dense trees in the dark wood.  Thunder and whispers filled the air, and deep, menacing growling and slithering noises surrounded him.  He was lying on the ground, his face stuck to a dark, moist patch of earth, and the shadowy light above him was blocked out by a deeper shadow, the shadow of a man leaning over him.  He started up, rubbing the dirt from his face, staring into the face of his double.  The double was wearing his 2006 suit again, and was grinning a wide, crazed smile at him.

“So, Sammy’s starting to remember what happened in the warehouse, is he?  What can you recall then, Sam?  Do you remember who was there?  The man with the big hands, that’s for sure, and then the other two, the one with the oh-so-flip voice, and the other posh one, as well.  And me.  I was all three of them, wasn’t I, Sammy?  I can be whoever you want me to be.  I can be you, couldn’t I?  Just wake up, there, in that hospital, in either hospital, and take over for you.  Wouldn’t you like that, Sam?”  The double continued to smile at him, and Sam felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“You leave them alone…  You leave all of them alone…”  Sam’s voice was low and threatening as he met the double’s gaze.  “I’m going to wake up, and we’re going to stop you - stop all of them, and then you’re going to go away.  The only reason you’re here is because of this case, I know that much.”

“You’re so sure of that, are you, Sam?  How do you know that I haven’t been here all along?  Watching and waiting, waiting for you to finally face the truth.  You’ve got to stop and face the truth, Sam, face up to reality.”

“You crawled out of my mind because of this case, and once we end it, there’ll be no more murders, and you’ll be gone.  You’re just my fear, just my fear in this crazed nightmare, and you’re going to go away.  Do you hear me?”  Sam twisted his neck around and started to scream up at the canopy of leaves above him, “Do you hear me?  I’m going to stop it, going to stop all of this!  It’s all just some stupid nightmare, and it’s going away!  I’m better than this!  I’m going to stop it all!”  Sam realized he was shivering, still nude, and turned to face his double, his face twisted in rage.

“I crawled out of your mind because of this case?  Sam, this entire case crawled out of your mind.  This entire world crawled out of your mind, and everyone in it.  You still haven’t faced up to that, have you?  You still have no clue what’s real, how it all started, do you?  Now, we can’t have backsliding here, not when you’ve come so far.  You already made one important discovery thanks to me, didn’t you?”  The double leaned forward on his hands and knees, so that his face was directly in front of Sam’s, and Sam felt himself start to lean back, to move away from the double.  He bolstered his own will and forced himself to sit upright, his own face moving incredibly close to the double’s.

“You are a hallucination.  Nothing more.”  Sam’s voice was filled with anger as he said it, and he tried to sound as menacing as the double had.

“I am the truth, Sam.  That’s the real reason that I came.  Because I’m the truth.  You cooked up this entire world on your own, everyone in it, and all of their lives.  They’re all just figments of your imagination.  That’s why I’m here, Sam, to make you remember exactly what happened, in your own imagination.  You’ve already made one important realization, haven’t you?  You already know what happened in one part of your crazed fantasy,” the double continued to smile, his face an inch away from Sam’s.  In the distance, the voices started to thicken, to coalesce, and Sam heard his own voice start to echo back to him.

“It was a conscious decision,” came his voice, and in Sam’s mind’s eye, he saw himself stepping away from his jeep, saw himself being crushed against the speeding car.  “It was a conscious decision,” the voice continued to echo around him, accompanied by the sound of flesh and bone being swiftly impacted by metal and glass.

“That was in reality, yeah, so how the hell can anything of that be a part of this stupid fantasy world?  And it wasn’t.  It wasn’t.  It couldn’t have been a choice.  I wouldn’t do that,” Sam gritted his teeth as he said it, his forehead nearly touching the double’s.

“Oh, so that was reality, was it?  Was it really?  Was any of that?  Maya getting kidnapped, her shirt left bloody and alone on the swing set down Satchmore Road, that was all reality?  That car was reality?”  The double pulled back and started to laugh, adjusting itself into a sitting position and leering at Sam again.  “Oh, it seems I really do have my work cut out for me, don’t I, Sam?”

“Of course that was reality!  What else could it have been?  And you don’t have anything to do.  What I have to do is wake up, in 1973, catch the killer, and then you’ll be gone.  Who knows, maybe that’s what I really need to do to wake up in 2006.  It’s worth a shot.”  Sam sat down across from the double and pulled his legs up under himself, crossing his arms over his chest.  “I just have to find the person that did this to me, and to those other men, and then, this will all be over.  I know this, I know how this place works.”

“Oh, do you really, Sam?  So, this whole great puzzle is great piece of cake for you?  Then why don’t you try this little slice?”  The world started to spin again, and the ground started to grow harder.  Sam felt fabric appear on his arms and legs, the strange, soft feeling of corduroy on his legs, the flimsy fabric of one of his 1970’s shirts on his arms and chest, and soon, he was sitting, alone, dressed in the height of 1973 fashion, on a concrete floor.  Four concrete walls surrounded him, a blinking fluorescent light hung overhead, and water was dripping down the walls.

The fluorescent light flickered above him again, and soon, eight large, flat panel televisions, the height of 2006 technology, all appeared on the walls, each with their cords hidden completely from view, just suspended on the walls, over the runners of condensation that seemed to be dripping down every inch of the hard, concrete blocks of the walls.  The televisions all flashed to life, each blasting a bright, light picture of soundless television static at him, a flurry of white, two panels for each of the four walls.  Sam stood up in the center of the room, and stared around him.

“What the hell is this?  What is this supposed to mean?  Where the hell have you taken me now?”  He looked down at his clothing, and then up at the televisions, “This doesn’t quite fit, does it?  Think you’ve made a bit of an error, here.”  Above him, one of the televisions flickered to a full picture.  His mother, her proper, 2006 age, grey hair cut to her jaw, her face drawn and haggard.  Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she was sitting next to the plastic rail of a modern hospital bed.

“Mum!”  Sam screamed as he saw her, and rushed forwards, putting his hands at either side of the screen.  “Mum, can you hear me?  Mum, I’m all right!  Mum!”  Sam had his face so close to the screen that he could feel the soft, plastic touch of its plasma screen, and he drew his face back slightly so that he could make out the full picture.  “Mum, I’m here!  Mum!”

“She can’t hear you, Sam,” Sam spun around and saw the double standing there, still dressed in his dark suit, his hands in his pockets.  “Do you see what you’re doing to her?  Poor thing, all alone, no one to help her through this.  And if you think that’s bad, wait until you hear the others.  Wait until you see…  You already know, don’t you, Sammy, just what you’ve already done to all of your friends in your new little world, or, rather, your old little world.  You’d already done it all to them the moment that you cooked all of them up in your warped little head.  Do you really want to know what a sadistic bastard you are, Sam?  Well, that’s what this lesson is all about.  You can’t just create someone, just bring them to life, and then expect them to be.  You have to let them grow, Sam, let their own lives influence who they will become.  There’s nature, and there’s nurture, and the two really do have to go hand in hand for a human being to be made, don’t they?  Do you want to know about that process, Sam?  Do you want to know what types of lives you’ve given your compatriots?  I think you should.  You already know, really.  You just have to be shown.  You have to be told.  You’re stupid like that, Sam, you have to be shown or told everything.  And you, one of the more clever people in the world.  It really is quite sad.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” Sam spat at his double, and then stared at his mother again, saw her crying, her hand shaking as she extended it, a damp cloth in one hand.

“Does that feel better, darling?” he heard his mother ask, and the light overhead, along with the other seven televisions, started to close out around him.  He felt a soft, smooth, wet feeling on his face and forehead, and realized that he could feel his mother, softly brushing his brow with the cloth she was holding.

“Mum?  I can feel you!  Mum…”  The entire world snapped into blackness, and Sam became aware of the bed beneath him, of the IV tubes in the back of his left hand, of the blankets and sheets pulled up over him.  Pain shot through him as the world hardened, and he realized that he was back in the hospital bed.  Back in the hospital bed, and he could still feel his mother’s hand, softly running the damp cloth along his face.  It was cool against the strange heat that seemed to fill his heat, gumming up the works of his brain, incredibly comforting.  He felt the oxygen mask over his face, and tried to speak through it, to let her know that he was here.  She’d looked so worried, so tired…  He hated the idea that he was doing that to her, wanted to offer her anything, anything at all to try and comfort her.

“Mum?”  Sam tried to open his eyes.  He felt his lungs pumping, frantically, moving in hard motions against the wretched, hot, stabbing sensation of breathing, and he fought to form his words.  “Mum?”  She had to know he was all right…

“Do I look like someone’s mum, you daft twat?”  Sam realized that the hand against his face was larger, harder, younger than his mother’s would be, and then felt the sudden impact of being in 1973 again.  He’d been looking at his mother, but he’d woken up in 1973, once again.  So, that was their bargain, was it?  He tried to recognize the voice, but it seemed incredibly distant, like someone speaking to him through a tin-can-and-string phone.  Gene?  He tried to make his voice work again, his throat and lips moving, his tongue stirring in his mouth, but he couldn’t get enough air to speak.  He continued to try and fight for air, and then the voice came closer, and he realized who was above him.

“I’m not your mum, you soft nonce.  My own mum used to do this for me, when I was ill.  Thought you might like it.  Nurses said it wouldn’t do no harm.  Figure I’d just add another punch to the list of ones I owe you, in payment for it.  Long list, that.  Why you need to get well.  I’m not some bastard’s going to go hitting nobody laid up in hospital, and I owe you another punch up.  Big one.  So, you’ve got to get better, one hundred percent, and then I’ll kick the living shit out of you, just like you deserve.  Deal?”  Sam felt another large, rough hand on his right hand, fingers working their way around his to grasp his palm in an oddly angled handshake.  “Deal it is, then.  You get all better, and then I kick the shit out of you.  I’m holding you to your side of that, you know.”

Sam heard a sigh, and then the hand on his forehead pressed down again, the soft, cold feeling washing away some of the heat and confusion that seemed to have settled themselves around his head.  “I hate soddin’ hospitals.  I remember when I was in, after that damned bomb blast caught me.  All them nurses, pokin’ around, doctors comin’ and proddin’ at me all hours.  They’re doin’ that to you, now, though I reckon you can’t feel it.  Bloody twonks hoverin’ over you all the time.  Guess they’re doing their jobs, though.  Gettin’ you well.  Does this help, then?”  Sam felt the cloth pull away for a moment, and then settle back down against his cheek.  Ray’s voice continued, growing less faint, less distant, as wakefulness took Sam into its arms.

“Always thought it felt nice, when my mum did it for me.  She was a nice lady, but hard, had to be, to keep up with me dad.  He was in the navy, he was, during the war.  Died in a battle in the channel, he did.  And then mum, she copped it in a bombing, later that year.  Christmas time.  Do you remember that, eh, you pansy?  Christmas 1940, all of Manchester being raised to the ground.  Lots of buildings still flattened out, aren’t there?  Not near as many as there were just a few years back, though.  Soddin’ council finally doing sommat about it, yeah?  I remember when we were boys, used to go around all the old bombed out buildings, daring each other to go further and further in.  Sometimes, the roofs would start to shake, and the whole places would come down around us, and then we’d come out, cuts and bruises and hard shite, like we was invincible.  Warden used to give us a right hidin,’ each time that we did that, but I guess it was a good thing.  Made us all hard, and strong.”

Ray sighed again, “Hospitals.  Bloody damned hospitals.  You know, when I got out before, I don’t know what I was thinking, it was so damned soddin’ muddled, except that I knew you’d done it to me.  Wanted to kill you for it.  And then you go and talk down that crazy fat bastard with his gun, save me life, then fork over enough to pay for all me drinks for a week.  I’ll never understand you, you dross cunt.  Come waltzin’ in here, like you own the place, all these stupid new ideas of yours, and the worst part is, they all soddin’ work.  I was goin’ for inspector, you know, and I’d’ve gotten it, too, if your pansy arse hadn’t shown up.  Owe you a lot of blows for that one, I do.  But you’re good at the job.  Poor little Chris, he looks up to you now, like he used to look up to me.  Guess it’s better, that.  He could never handle being a copper the hard way, could he?  Chris…  Still me best mate and all, so’s you’d better look after him good, teach him your stupid Hyde ways all nice an’ good, you know.  You’ve got your stupid, soft ways, but they work.  I hate admittin’ it, but they do.  You do.  You can keep the job, you damned poof, just get well.  You hear me?  You can keep the job, and one day, I’ll save your soddin’ life in turn, and then I’ll beat the livin’ shit out of you, and we’ll be all squared away.  So, you have to get well.  So it can happen like that.  You have to.”

Sam’s struggling finally paid off, and his eyes flickered open, the light blindingly bright, his eyes feeling like hot, moist marbles in his head.  He continued to fight against the deep, hot knives that were working their way in and out of his ribs with each breath, trying to form words.  “Only you… Would want…  Me better…  To beat me up…  Daft Neanderthal…”  He finally managed to form the sentence, finding that just speaking drained what little energy he had in this world away from him.

Sam saw a broad smile split Ray’s face as he leaned over him, “That’s it!  That’s you, that is, you wanker,” and Sam couldn’t help but try to grin under the oxygen mask.  Ray’s voice continued, “You need anything?  I can get a nurse…”  Ray’s voice started to fade away, again sounding like it was coming from down a long tunnel, and Sam felt his eyes start to flutter shut, the room swaying back and forth, lulling him back to sleep.  “Boss?  You still there, you twat?”  He barely heard the last words as the darkness took him again.

Sam awoke again in the concrete room, damp and cold and full of screens, and all of the flat panels were again flashing snow at him.  The double was leaning into a corner of the room, his suit back being spoiled by the water seeping down the walls, a condescending look on his face.  “You did that to him, you know.  No family.  Mother blown to pieces just feet away from him.  And then you let him get blown up by that car bomb, just another little plot that your twisted mind came up with.  Why, Sam?  Do you have any idea?”  The screen next to the double flashed to life, a small boy crawling through rubble, then finding a woman, the back of her head crushed in, blood covering her old-fashioned dress.  The boy was shaking her, screaming for her to wake up, blood covering him as he embraced her corpse.  Sam had to turn his face away from the screen as it flickered off.

“I didn’t do that.  I didn’t make any of this…  It wasn’t something I ever did on purpose.  None of it was done on purpose.”  Sam stared at the floor as he said it, and the double started to laugh, a low, slow chuckle, as he pointed across the room.  Another screen flashed to life, and he saw Ray sitting next to his bed in one of the hard, plastic chairs of the hospital.  Ray turned his head and the door to the room opened, and Chris came inside.  Sam’s features twisted with confusion as he noticed that both Chris and Ray’s faces were covered in bruises, Chris’ looking the worse, half of his face swollen and purple.  Sam wondered if they’d gotten into fights with suspects they were questioning, or if something had sparked an argument between the two of them.

The sound started to fade in on the television, and Sam strained to listen, wishing that he had some way of adjusting the volume, and noticing that there were no controls on the televisions.  Completely modern, 2006 technology - you’d need a remote to control anything on them.  Sam tried to pick up on what they were saying, noticing that the world was tilting as he leaned forward, the picture becoming more and more real, less sharp high-definition clarity and more foggy reality, the rest of the room becoming a blur around him.  The sound picked up, volume increasing, and he leaned in closer to the screen.

“He’s in and out, don’t think he can hear anything I’ve said to him.  Think he might’ve picked up on one bit I was saying, just for a moment, like.  I bloody hate hospitals, I do,” Ray was saying, and Chris was nodding, keeping his eyes on Ray, trying not to look towards Sam on the bed.  “What all happened at that studio place?”

“Couldn’t get a hold of anything good, everyone’s closing the place down.  No one seems to have known what Grey and Myers were doing.  Most of the staff weren’t allowed in any of the areas, except for a few movers who were handling the sculptures.  Secretary bird said that there was another artist that Myers met, stopped by from time to time, always made Myers excited, but she couldn’t quite remember what he looked like.  Annie’s gone out for tea with her, playin’ the birds an’ birds card, trying to get more information.  The Gov’s takin’ some of the movers and other staff in and questioning them, asked if I wanted to be in on it, but I said no, I’d just take over for you, here.  So I’ll stay until you and the Gov are done questioning ‘em, and then Annie and I are going to go over the tape I made, afterwards, when the Gov comes in for his shift,”  Chris’ voice was quiet, and didn’t quite sound like the usual voice that Sam had grown accustomed to.  He tried to determine whether or not this was due to the sound on the television, or to a change in Chris’ mannerisms.

“Good, maybe the silly bird’ll be able to find somethin’ you didn’t.   Not that you didn’t do a good job,” Ray added the last bit hastily.

Chris nodded at Ray, and then moved to sit down in the chair next to Sam’s bed.  Sam felt the ground start to shift beneath his feet, and knew that he was being thrust back into his body in 1973, felt the cold, leaden feeling in his limbs and the hot, stabbing pain in his chest start to flood back into him.  Hot and cold - the pneumonia that his mother had mentioned in 2006 had to be affecting him in 1973, then.

“See you back at the station, then,” he heard Ray’s voice as an echo, far and distant, and darkness covered the world.  He felt the hiss of air against his mouth and nose, knew that it had to be the oxygen mask in the 1973 hospital, and resigned himself to his fate.

“See you, mate,” he heard Chris’ voice, and then the pain and strange sensations of the world came up to him, overtaking him, thrusting him back down and anchoring him into his body.  “Boss?  Can you hear me?”  He heard Chris’ voice shifting, sliding through the strange, twirling motion of the world, the bed underneath him seeming to float in the bizarre fever haze that held the 1973 version of the world in its grasp.

“We’re trying to find the bastard that started this all, we are,” Chris’ voice grew slightly less distant, and Sam was grateful for it.  He seemed to be coming around slightly, into an odd, dazed wakefulness.

“Annie’s talking to a bird that worked for that Myers bloke, the one that did this to you,” he heard Chris’ voice, and then Gene’s words the other night came floating back to him.  Myers was the one with the largest hands, then.  But who had the other two men been?  Sam racked his brain to try and separate the voices in his memory, but the horrible, pain-filled confusion of the experience, coupled with the fact that his sadistic double had been sliding in and out of all three of the men there, prevented him from thinking of any concrete details.

“She’s a right gorgeous bird, she is, and I don’t think she wears nought under her skirt,” the statement seemed much more like the Chris he was accustomed to, and the familiarity of it was comforting to Sam.  “Glad Annie’s talking to her, I couldn’t put two words together, with her in the room,” Chris continued.

“I wish I could talk to you, Boss.  Not sure if I’d be able to, though, if this were just normal, like.  I always wish there was someone to talk to, but there never is, is there?  Raking stuff up’s never good, though, is it?”  Sam thought he heard Chris’ voice break, and he struggled to open his eyes again.  God, why were his eyelids so heavy?  Was Chris crying?

“I couldn’t bring myself to visit Ray, the day he had to spend in hospital.  I hate hospitals, too.  And you…  You look just like…  You look just like me mum, when she was in hospital.  There was - when I was younger, before I joined the force, she, she…”  Chris’ voice trailed off, and then came back, wavering and choked, and Sam was certain that he was crying now.

“She fell down the stairs, she were always clumsy, for a while, before she died.  Fell down the stairs when I was seventeen.   Looked just like you did, on that stretcher, when they pulled you out of the studio.  Just like.  All the blood, everywhere.  They sent her home, two weeks later, but she were ill after that.  And then in and out of hospital, four times, sort of getting better, then getting’ worse.  Died of pneumonia, the last time, just after me eighteenth birthday.  Looked just like you.  Just like.  I try to forget, I mean, me memory’s shite as it is, but I never can forget that.  She wanted me to look after her flowers for her, but I was shite at that an’ all.  Never could get ‘em right.  They all died, and now there’s nought but weeds there.  I’m always shite, when it really matters, aren’t I?”

Sam tried to force his eyes open, to force words out of his mouth, but his body was still uncooperative.  He’d only ever once heard Chris sounding like that before, the time that he’d questioned him over Billy Kemble.  He started to wish that counseling services were available in 1973, wished that someone would be able to talk to Chris - Christ, it must be a horrible mess for him, Sam thought.  Seeing me here, looking just like his mother.  Sam was suddenly aware that he’d never really heard Chris mention his parents, which seemed odd, considering that Chris’ mannerisms seemed to point towards him being close to his parents, and heavily coddled, as a child.  Sam tried to think of anything that he’d read about grief counseling, and then gave up, knowing that it would be considered inappropriate and girly for him to try and say anything to Chris, and knowing that he was incapable of speaking at all, in his current condition.  He listened as Chris continued, his monologue droning on, like Ray’s had.

“You’re gettin’ thin, too, Boss.  I mean, you were always sort of slim, but fit, you know, the way you’re always goin’ on about us not eatin’ all the fried stuff.  But you’re too sparse, now.  Just like me mum.  She was just bones, in the end.  I was afraid to hold her hand, afraid that I’d hurt her.  I couldn’t do nought for her.  Couldn’t even keep the bloody flowers alive.  Useless prat, that’s me.  Not like me uncle, or me dad.  My dad…  He was a war hero, you know.  Big time war hero.”  Chris’ voice trailed off, and Sam wasn’t sure if it was because of the spinning and swaying of the room, or because the other man had stopped speaking.

“Me dad…  He’d been in the army, like.  Was a lieutenant-colonel.  Led men through France and Germany, he did.  A hero.  A real hero, he was.  I don’t really remember him going away, or anything, like some of the other fellas can remember their dads being in the war.  Wasn’t born until 1945.  Dad had some leave, came home, started saying he was going to take mum to live in a big old house in the country, but she wanted to stay in her family house.  Said it was home.  Same house that I still live in.  And then she got pregnant with me, and Dad went back to war.  Got captured, towards the end, for near a year.  Prisoner of war.  Then the war ended, and they sent him back.  Spent a long spell in hospital, then came back to us.  Worked as a factory manager for a while, after that.  Then just stopped working.  Had a nice pension for having been in the war, you see, so it was more than enough.”

Chris continued, and Sam felt his heart to turn ice as the story moved on.  Chris’ father had been a prisoner of war…  On the European front, at the end of World War 2…  Did that mean…  “Me dad was always real quiet, and real soft with me and me mum.  Used to build model airplanes and things with me, when I was little, and he bought this set of books, the Oz books, that me mum would read to me.  I was never good at the models, and I always asked too many questions about the books, but he just laughed at it, said I’d be good at it someday.  I never was, though.  And he just got more and more quiet.  Didn’t say much, but it were always kind.  Used to always wake me up early, every school day, just so that I could ask for a few more minutes and he could give ‘em to me.  Always doting on me mum, he was.  Telling her how beautiful she was.  But she was, you know?  Real classy, for an old steelworker’s daughter, really beautiful.”

“Me dad…  He had bad dreams, some nights.  Got to be more and more, then every night, by the time I was ten.  Used to wake up screamin,’ and I’d wake up to that, and then come down sometimes, see me mum makin’ him a cuppa, and he’d tell me not to worry, and see, even big war heroes could have bad dreams.  Used to tell me all sorts of stories, old fairy tales, and stuff about Rome and Greece and things.  Right smart old bloke, was me dad.  Real smart.  Knew all sorts of things.  Used to tell me that the sky was blue because it had nitrogen in it, and that the grass was green because it had sommat called chlorophyll in it, stuff like that.  I don’t remember most of it, stupid git that I am. Real smart, and real quiet.  I never felt bad about havin’ nightmares, because he’d tell me he had ‘em too, and all people did, and it was no big deal.  Used to leave an old oil lamp going in me bedroom, when I was little, since I was scared of the dark.  Didn’t tell me it’d make me soft or nothing, just let me have it there.”

Chris took a deep breath and moved on, not sure why he was telling Sam all of this, but glad that he had someone to talk to, someone that couldn’t hear him and tell him what a great, soft nonce he was being for going on about the past.  “So he would have these nightmares, me dad would, and he’d wake up screamin,’ and I’d never understand a word of it.  It was always in German.  Me dad, he spoke German, and French, and he knew Latin and all sorts of things.  Right genius, he was.  Nothing like me.  But he’d be screamin’ in German most nights, all nights by the time I was ten.  Sometimes he’d just be sittin’ there, and I’d come up to him, ask him to go kick a football with me, like, and he just kept starin’ ahead, like he weren’t seein’ nothing.  Scared me a bit, when he did that, and it just came more and more.  And then one day, I went out to do the shoppin’ with me mum, and when we came back…”  Sam heard Chris start to sob, then.

“When we came back, he’d shot himself, with his old army pistol, in the basement.  Right in the chest.  They said he’d still been alive, afterwards, that he’d bled to death when we were gone.  An’ he was just laid there, on the floor, blood spilling out everywhere, and me mum was screamin,’ and there was nought I could do but just look.  Just look at him, and at the blood everywhere.  Big pool of it, just spilled out under ‘im.  And there was nothin’ I could do,” Chris was crying heavily now, his words mangled by the sobs.

“Me dad’s brother, my uncle Mike, he came, then, and married me mum.  He was nothin’ at all like me dad, real loud, used to always tell me what a soft little git I was.  Used to always be hittin’ on me, lettin’ me know what a little prat I was, soft little nonce.  I tried to harden up, to show ‘im I could be a man, but I was never good enough.  Four O-levels only, and he kept tellin’ me how stupid I was.  And I am.  I know I am.  I just couldn’t think for all them facts they kept tellin’ us at school.  They just didn’t stick.  And me mum, she’d try to stick up for me, and then he’d start in on her, and again, all I did was watch.  I never did nought.  Until the day she…  She fell…”  Chris was choking the words out around sobs, and Sam felt his eyelids start to obey him, his eyes slowly opening.  Chris bent forward on the chair, his head in his hands, tears falling down the bruised flesh of his face.

“She didn’t really fall down no staircase.  He…  He just kept on hittin’ her, and hittin’ her, and I tried to pull him off of her, and we got into a right punch up, and then he hit me head on the wall, and when I woke up…  I called the ambulance, and me uncle told me to say she fell, and they came and took her away.  And she looked just like you did, Boss, when they took you away from the warehouse.  Just like.  And that’s all I’ve been able to think about, since.  How much you looked like her, all bloodied up on the stretcher.   And nothin’ I could do.  And then she were ill, and they’d take her in to hospital, and then let her out, and then she’d be ill again, and then…  They had one of them things on her face, too, and she was so hot, and couldn’t breathe, just like you…”  Chris bent forward and took Sam’s hands in both of his.

“She never got better, just died, pneumonia, they said.  Just like they say you’ve got.  So you’re gonna die here, just like she did, and there’s nought I can do.  There’s never anything I can do, until it’s too late.  By the time I finally did something, she’d already died.  And I can’t do nothing now, can I?  You’re always tryin’ to show me things, and I’m never quite cottoning on, and you still keep up, tryin’ to teach me about surveillance, and makin’ tapes, and lookin’ for clues and things, and even about birds, and it’s just not stickin,’ and I know that I can be a good copper, just like you, you’ve taught me a lot, but it’s all gonna end now, isn’t it?  You’re gonna die, just like me mum did, and I can’t do anything.”  Chris’ voice dissolved into sobs, and he bent low, his head resting against in his palms, still on the bed beside Sam’s hand.

Sam mustered his strength and tried to lift his hand, placing it on the back of Chris’ head, and he felt Chris jolt upright as he did so.  “Boss?”

“Chris…”  Sam tried to say something, not sure what he could possibly say, after that, the details still spinning through his mind.

Chris sat bolt upright, wiping at his eyes with his hands, staring, wide-eyed, into Sam’s now opened eyes.  “Boss - you’re awake!  You need anything?  Should I call someone?  What do I do?”  Chris started to look about frantically, and Sam summoned all of his strength to speak again.

“Nothing, Chris…  You don’t…  You don’t need to…  I’ll be fine…”  Sam’s breath started to hitch in his throat again, and he tried to lean back, straightening himself out against it.

“Yeah, yeah Boss, you’ll be fine, you’ll be okay,” Chris was saying it frantically, over and over again, peering down at Sam.

“I will…  I promise…”  Sam tried to lift his hand again, feeling Chris’ grasping the side of the bed near it, and he reached out, the dull throb in his arm flaring up as he did so, but he eventually found Chris’ hand and let his fingers close over it.  Chris grasped his hand in return, then moved his other hand forward so that he was gripping Sam’s hand between both of his.

“I’ll be…  Be fine…  Just need…  Just need a few days…”  Sam tried to think of something to say, the room swaying and spinning around him more erratically, the force of the motion making him close his eyes against it.  “You need…  You need to talk…  Talk to someone…”  The worlds collided again, and Sam heard the beeping noises and sounds of 2006 rise up around him as the world shook, the shifting between the worlds causing his entire body to shake.  “At the station…  Arrange a…  Arrange counseling…  Talk to…  Desk Sergeant Mitton…  Schedule a session…  Put it in your…  In your Outlook calendar…”

Chris let confusion contort his features as he stared at Sam, whose eyes were now closed.  “My what calendar?  Who’s Desk Sergeant Mitton?  Boss, we don’t have any Sergeant Mitton, we don’t, I swear.  And, I don’t have a, have any calendar thing, Boss.  Is that some other new Hyde-type thing?  Boss?”

Sam tried to answer Chris again, but the spinning of the world was pulling him down, the darkness dragging him away again, and he soon found himself standing in the concrete room again.  He looked up, and saw Chris at his bedside in 1973 displayed on one of the televisions, the rest of them all broadcasting thick jumbles of white and grey static.  On the screen, he saw Chris bend down, still grasping his hand, and start to shake, sobbing over him.  Sam turned away, and his double was standing there, grinning at him.  The double pointed to the opposite wall, and both of the televisions there flashed to life.

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