Fic: Steady As She Goes (3/86)
Title: Steady As She Goes (3/86)
Author: dak
Word Count: 1791
Rating: Blue Cortina
Warnings: major angst, mild swearing
Summary: Sam's not handling things well.
Disclaimer: If anyone would like to give me the rights to Life on Mars, I'd happily oblige.
A/N: Thank you again for the reviews! You people make it a joy to write. So I'm not very nice to Sammy in this part, but don't worry. It'll only get worse. Unbeta'd so let me know if you see any mistakes. Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60 Part 61 Part 62 Part 63 Part 64 Part 65 Part 66 Part 67 Part 68 Part 69 Part 70 Part 71 Part 72 Part 73 Part 74 Part 75 Part 76 Part 77 Part 78 Part 79 Part 80 Part 81 Part 82 Part 83 Part 84 Part 85 Part 86
“But there are so many other factors to consider. I mean, if this ‘s-really all in my head, why would I cause something like that to happen. ‘Specially to Chris? If it had to happen anyway, why not Ray or Litton or me? But what if I can only control parts. Maybe not what happens, but only the outcomes. Maybe if I jus’ think ‘bout it hard enough, Chris’ll be okay. But if I could control that I shoulda jus’ prevented ‘im from gettin’ shot in the firs’ place, right?”
“The most beautiful and horrible thing about life, mon brave, is that we can’t control everything.”
Sam threw back his glass of whiskey, one of several he’d purchased from Nelson over the past hour. The barman had tried not to worry when the DI had stumbled into his pub covered in blood and clutching a tattered, red-stained folder. Though he wasn’t technically open yet, Nelson always made exceptions for his favorite confused coppers. He’d done the same for Gene long before Sam had come to Manchester.
So as Sam had sat silently at the bar, clutching the file to his chest with one hand and drinking with the other, Nelson had slowly been able to get him to open up and reveal what had happened. Of course, once he got Sam talking he couldn’t get him to stop. Nelson figured it was better that way. People drank less when they were rambling.
“I’ll have another Nelson.”
Nelson calmly dried a pint glass. “Don’t you think it’s time to check on Chris?”
Sam squeezed the file tighter and shook his head, avoiding eye contact. “He’ll only be in surgery. If he’s still alive. There’s nothing I can do there.”
“What about at the station? There must be something for you there.”
“Hateful looks and snide remarks.” Sam tried to drain the last drops from his already empty glass. “God, it’d be worse than an episode of Hollyoaks.” He slammed the glass down and pushed it towards Nelson. “Another.”
Nelson leaned on the counter, trying to look Sam in the eye. “I don’t think that’s wise, Sam.”
Sam carefully set down the file and pulled out his wallet. “Fine. I’ll take a bottle for take away then. Give me your cheapest scotch.”
The wallet still in Sam’s hands, Nelson pushed it back towards the drunk copper. “No Sam.”
Sam couldn’t understand what was the matter. He was in a pub, he wanted alcohol, and he had money.
“Why don’t you wait here while I call DCI Hunt?”
Sam angrily shoved the wallet in his coat pocket and grabbed the folder off the bar. “This isn’t th’only place to drink, you know.” He stood up, almost falling off the stool and stumbled towards the door. “If you don’ want to serve me, I can go elsewhere.”
“Sam...”
“Piss off!” He tried pushing open the door before realizing he had to pull, cursed again, and stumbled outside.
Nelson picked up the red bar phone and dialled. “I need to speak with DCI Hunt.”
Sam took off down the street, his feet soon finding their way to an off license near his flat. The store was nearly empty save for the man behind the counter and an elderly woman shopping in the corner. Sam shuffled up to the counter and slammed the file down while searching his pockets for his wallet.
“Bottle of scotch,” he mumbled. Sam looked up at the man. More of a boy, he thought. As Sam looked harder at the clerk he realized he had two different colored eyes, just like Chris. For some reason that made him angry. “I said, a bottle. Of. Scotch.”
“What kind sir?” The lad meekly asked, staring at the blood on Sam’s clothes.
“Whate’er I can get for this,” he pulled a few tenners from his wallet and dropped them on the counter. One fell on the floor and as Sam bent over to pick it up he knocked the file to the ground, sending paper everywhere.
“Shit!” Sam’s eyes went wide and he immediately fell to floor, scrambling to pick up the scattered pages.
“Here, dear, let me help you,” the old woman said kindly.
“No! No. Don’, don’ touch them.”
The woman, concern in her eyes, still tried to help.
“I said no!” Sam fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his warrant card. He wildly waved it around. “I’m, I’m a p’lice officer, an’ these, these are evidence.” His body shaking from stress and alcohol, Sam hurriedly grabbed every last paper and stood up. Double checking that he collected it all, Sam grabbed the bottle of scotch the clerk had pulled out and headed for the door.
“Your change sir!” The clerk called out, but Sam didn’t respond as he ran out the door, leaving his change on the counter and his warrant card on the floor.
It took Sam five minutes to return to his flat, and another ten to find his keys and open his door. He slammed it shut, made sure it was locked, and set the file and scotch on the unmade bed. He threw off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and switched on the radio.
“David Cassidy. ‘M so bloody sick of David Cassidy. C’mon 1973, don’ you have anything better for me?” He shouted at the ceiling. Just then the radio crackled.
I’m afraid we don’t know the cause of Sam’s sudden deterioration, Mrs. Tyler, but we are monitoring him as closely as possible.
“Sudden deterioration, huh? Maybe this’ll help, Doctor.” Sam grabbed the scotch, twisted off the cap, and gulped it down.
“Oh, Sam. Do you really think that will help poor Chris?”
Sam spun around to see the Test Card Girl staring quizzically at him.
“Was wonderin’ when you’d show up.” He took another swig.
“I’m always with you Sam. You should know that.”
“My guardian angel,” he remarked cynically.
“I’m worried about you Sam. You shouldn’t have shot poor, little Chris like that. It wasn’t very nice.”
Sam dropped the bottle and backed away. “No, no, no. I, I didn’t shoot him.”
The girl glided closer. “Friends don’t hurt each other. Isn’t Chris your friend?”
Sam backed into the wall and slid down. “I didn’t do it. I wasn’t there. I was upstairs!”
The girl continued closer. “The judge isn’t the executioner, but he still gives the sentence, and the judge is always right.”
“Please leave. Just go.”
“You’re always right, aren’t you Sam? So what happened to Chris must have been right.”
“Leave him alone!” Sam screamed. As he blinked away the tears and struggled for breath, he realized she was finally gone. He shot nervous glances around the room, but could see no signs of her. The radio was back to playing “How Can I Be Sure.”
Unable to get his breathing under control, Sam used his bed to help him stand, grabbed the wrinkled file, and ran out of the flat.
*
Gene picked the warrant card up off the floor, checking the name just in case.
This is to certify that Sam Tyler...
Gene snapped the badge shut. He shoved it in his coat pocket and turned to the nervous clerk. It hadn’t taken him long to track down Tyler’s whereabouts. Phyllis had immediately radioed him when she got the call from Nelson stating that a distraught and drunk Sam Tyler had just stormed out of his pub.
“He was jus’ covered in blood, like. Weren’t sure if it was ‘is or what.”
Gene looked up from the floor. He’d forgotten the clerk was still talking. “What’d he buy?”
“A ten year old Glenmorangie. Lefty fifty quid for it. Dint take the change. Some tip, eh?”
“This it?” Gene pointed to the leftover notes on the counter.
“Yes sir. I...”
Gene grabbed the money off the counter and stuck it in his pocket.
“Cheers sir,” sighed the clerk as Gene walked out the door.
Seconds later the DCI was outside Sam’s flat. What concerned him more than the fact that Tyler wasn’t there was that the door had been left wide open. Although Sam really had nothing to steal he always closed and locked his door. Gene could recall all the times they were in a hurry, having to catch a robbery in progress or join a high-speed pursuit, and still the picky pain would waste time double checking his front door.
Gene stepped inside, mostly glad that he didn’t stumble upon a body splayed out on the floor. He’d had enough of that today. He walked across the room and switched off the radio, noticing the spilt bottle of scotch on the floor. He poked the stain with his fingers, noticing how damp it still was. The bottle must have been knocked over recently, the alcohol not given much time to dry in the carpet.
Gene leaned over and grabbed the leather jacket off the floor. He stood up and sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Dammit Gladys. Why can’t you stay in one place longer than five minutes.”
Gene laid the jacket on the bed and reached in his pocket, pulling out Sam’s change and setting it on the shelf above the bed. He took one last glance around the room before leaving and shutting the door, making sure it was locked.
*
“Why don’ you go home an’ get changed Cartwright. You look worse than me dog after he fell in the canal.”
“Cheers Ray.”
“I’m jus’ sayin’, I can wait here while you go dry off is all.” Ray stamped out the last of Clive’s cigarettes. “An’ you could pick us up another pack on the way.”
“I knew there’d be an ulterior motive,” Annie sighed. “In a few minutes, maybe. They said Chris might be out soon.”
Ray nodded, even though they’d been told “soon” about four times now. The staff had been nicer to them since the Guv spoke with them. The sisters kept shooting Annie sad glances and asking her if she needed anything. Ray wouldn’t be surprised if Gene had told them she was Chris’ wife or something.
“I didn’t know you had a dog,” Annie said, trying to fill the silence.
“Yeah. Jus’ an old mutt. Nothin’ special. But ‘e’s loyal and don’ say much.”
“Sort of like Chris,” she smiled.
“Yeah,” Ray chuckled. “Guess you’re right.”
“Except for the nothing special bit.”
“Yeah.”
They fell back into a nervous silence. Ray picking at his fingernails and Annie hugging his coat even tighter around her. Steady footsteps approached the waiting room from the direction of the operating theatres. A doctor with a grim expression appeared by the nurses station.
“I’m looking for the family of Christopher Skelton.”
_______
Part 4