Fic: Jabberwocky, Part 25a/? Blue Cortina, by Sytaxia

[sytaxia]

“Mr. Hunt.  Could I see you in my office, please?”  Denslow’s voice was soft but firm as he said it, and Gene looked up at him, giving him a stern, appraising look as he did so.  After a few minutes’ silence, Gene eventually nodded, and then turned to Annie.

“Cartwright, you look after him.  No leaving the room.  And take this,” Gene reached into the waist of his trousers and pulled out his gun, flipping it around in his hand and handing it, grip-first, to Annie, who gave him a wide-eyed, shocked look before nodding and taking it.  She drew one of the chairs in the new room up next to Sam’s bed, and then sat down heavily, the gun cradled in her lap and her eyes trained on Gene.

Gene stared at her for a moment, and then finally let go of Sam’s hand, moving towards the door, along with Denslow.  “Ten minutes,” he said, and Denslow nodded, and then opened the door, holding his arm out and motioning for Gene to leave the room before him.  Gene nodded at him and left, and together the two of them made their way towards the lifts, and up towards the administrative wing on the higher floor.

When the two of them reached Denslow’s office, Denslow reached back towards the small bar in his bookshelf, and retrieved two glasses and a bottle of scotch.  He poured a liberal amount into both of the glasses, and then handed one of them to Gene, before returning the bottle to its place and sitting down behind his desk.  Gene sat down in the chair across from Denslow, still staring at him, hard, his eyes cold and stony as he did so.

Denslow was silent for a moment, looking down into his glass, and then he looked back up at Gene, a resigned look in his eyes.  “You’re sure about this.  You’re absolutely sure I can’t persuade you to leave him here?”

Gene nodded, “No way in hell I’m leavin’ him here, not while that bastard’s still on the loose.  Besides, from the looks of things, your staff will be ruddy well glad to get rid of the threat.”  Gene took a sip from his glass and nodded at Denslow again.   “No.  He’s coming home with me.”

Denslow sighed, “He’s going to need a lot of care.  Looking after.  He’s very weak.”  Gene felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he realized that Denslow was still trying to talk him out of it.

“I can look after him.  Got lots of good officers in my unit, and that bird down there, she knows her bits and bobs ‘bout all this medical shite.  She can help out.”  He gave Denslow a very rough look, hoping that it would drive home his point and force Denslow to acquiesce again, and Denslow took a long pull from his glass, and then nodded at Gene.

“All right.  If you insist.”  Denslow looked down at his glass again, not sure where to begin, and Gene could tell that he was thinking of trying to talk Gene out of it again, and failing to think of anything that he could say that would suffice.  Eventually, Denslow leaned back in his chair, taking another drink and then he set his glass down on top of his desk.  “He’s still not keeping down solid food; I can prescribe oral antibiotics, but if he can’t keep them down, they won’t do much use, so it’ll have to be injections, at least until he’s back on his food.  At least twice a day.  And you’ll have to make sure he keeps hydrated - plenty of fluids, water, juice, tea - no alcohol, and no coffee.  If he can’t keep down liquids, he’ll need to be put back on an intravenous drip, and that’ll require a nurse to be present.”

“Detective Constable Cartwright should be good enough for that, if needs be,” Gene said, curtly, and Denslow winced at his tone.

“Mr. Hunt, I want you to understand, we’re both on the same side here.  We both want what’s best for Mr. Tyler.  I wouldn’t even be considering discharging him at all, if I wasn’t unsure of his safety here,” Denslow’s voice was quiet as he said this last, and Gene nodded at him again.

“Try to get him eating, you’ll be givin’ him jabs if he can’t keep down tablets, lots of drinks, nothing decent to drink.  Anything else?”  Gene raised an eyebrow, waiting for Denslow’s reaction, and trying to hammer home the point that he was, in fact, listening to everything that Denslow had to say.

Denslow quirked his own brow upwards in return of Gene’s gesture, and then sighed again before he continued, “Bed rest.  If he can, he can take short walks - across a room, down a hallway, but nothing more than that.  A few times a day at most, the rest of the time, he’s to stay in bed.  Absolutely no exceptions to that; he needs his rest, and no matter how much better or stronger he’s feeling, he’s still very weak.  He’ll probably be able to get up and move about more once he’s eating again, but you shouldn’t let him move about too much.  He can’t exhaust himself.  Is that understood?”

“Make sure the skinny little sod stays in the sack.  I don’t think I’ll have any trouble remembering that.”

“He’ll need help with his…  Personal needs.”  Denslow raised his eyebrow at Gene again, and Gene gave him a questioning look.  “Relieving himself,” Denslow responded to Gene’s expression, and Gene nodded again.  “Washing.  No baths until the new stitches come out, so he’s going to need someone to help him wash up while he’s in bed.  Do you understand that?  Nursing can be a dirty job, Mr. Hunt, and he needs someone that can do it properly.”

“Plenty of bastards shit and piss and puke all over the cells down at the station, Doctor, and I had no trouble cleaning it all up back when I was a plod.  I’ll have no trouble cleaning up after Sam, if he needs me to.”  Gene drained his glass, and then set it down with a resounding clunk on the top of the desk.  “Stop trying to talk me out of this; I know what I’m doing.  Now - food, drinks, stay in bed, help him piss and shit and wash…  What else?”

“Keep him inside, especially at night.  And no smoking around him,” Gene balked a bit at this, and Denslow’s voice took on a hard, almost growling tone strong enough to meet Gene’s, “I’m serious here.  His lungs need to heal; fresh air is good for him, so if we have a hot day, try to open a window, but only if it’s over 20 degrees or so.  Fresh air is good for his lungs, but cold air isn’t.”

“Twenty bleedin’ degrees?  Under freezing, that is,” Gene gave Denslow a quizzical look, and then rolled his eyes and quietly grumbled out, “Bloody damned new scales.  Fine.  20.  Doubt it’ll get that high, end of September.”  He met Denslow’s eyes again, “No cold air.  Keep him warm.  Keep him warm, feed him, water him, clean up after him - bloody hell, this is my DI, not a damned puppy that I’m keepin,’” Gene tried to break the tense mood, but found that his humor fell just as flat for himself as it did for Denslow.

“Antibiotics.  I’ll be around for the injections, and I’ll prescribe some pills for him to take once he’s eating again.  Bed rest, I’m serious about that.  And about the no smoking; it’s not good for you, it’s not good for him, but in his current state, he needs clean air.  I’d bar you from smoking in here, if the hospital would allow me to.”

Gene grunted, “Fine.  Think I can remember all that.  What else?”

“Call me if anything happens.  Any change in his cough, any changes in pain, especially sudden, sharp pain, any signs of fever - you take his temperature at least four times a day, and you call me immediately if it rises.  Immediately, is that understood?”

Gene nodded again.  “Clear as bloody crystal.”

“No aspirin.   No drugs of any kind, except for the ones that I prescribe.”

Gene nodded.

“Don’t let him tire himself out.”

Gene nodded again.

“You’re absolutely sure that you can do this?  You need to be certain.”

“I’m more damned certain that I am of the fact that my name’s Gene Hunt, and of the fact that if you try to talk me out of this one more time, you’ll be stitching your own face back together.”

Denslow swallowed, hard, “Understood.  Do you know where and when you’ll be taking him?”

Gene started to open his mouth, and then stopped short, realizing that there was no way that he could take Sam back to his own bedsit, so it would have to be his house.  Gene ran a hand roughly across his mouth as he considered the layout, and the supplies that he had on hand.  He looked back at Denslow, and grunted at him, “This afternoon.  When it’s at its bloody warmest.  I’m not giving you the address here at the hospital; if that damned bastard’s around here, he’ll be able to get a hold of it. No, I’ll have to call you and tell you the address, and don’t you dare write it down.”

Denslow nodded at Gene, “Understood.”

“And you’ll be around, all hours?  In case we need you for anything?”

“I’ll give you both my office number, the hospital reception number, and my home number.   You shouldn’t have any trouble reaching me.”

“Then we’re set.  ‘Bout four more hours, and I take him out of here.”

Denslow nodded, “I’ll tell the nurses to get him ready, and give him the first of the high-dose antibiotics.  It really would be better to keep him on a constant, low dose, instead of the infrequent high ones, but this will have to do.  I’ll have a wheelchair brought up for him, as well.”

Gene grunted, and then stood, “I’ve got to make arrangements with some of my officers, and it sounds like you’ve got plenty of arranging to do yourself.”

Denslow stood and followed Gene out of the room, but didn’t make for the lifts as Gene did so, “I’ve got other patients to check on, you realize.”

Gene nodded, “Fine.  But you’d better have the lad ready, come one o’clock.  And Denslow?”  Denslow turned around as Gene stepped into the lift, “William.  Thank you.”  The doors closed in front of Gene’s face, and Denslow allowed himself an exasperated sigh as he moved towards the ICU rooms.

“You sure these’re workin’?”  Glen leaned back and lit another cigarette, and Chris nodded, following suit.  All three of the transmitters had returned nothing but silence for the duration of their stay in Hyde the previous day, and none of them had shown any sign of coming to life, except for the one in Morgan’s office, which had given them the sound of the door opening, a filing cabinet opening, and some papers rustling.  At least, Chris thought it was the sound of papers rustling - Glen was sure that it was just some static.

Chris glanced at his watch, and noticed that it was nearly half past ten.  He inhaled deeply on his own fag, and then tried to make small talk with Glen, as the two of them had finally exhausted their ideas about the case; both of them had similar thoughts, and both of them were waiting for noise to come through on the bug in Williams’ office harder than they were on the other two bands, hoping that Williams would make a show at the Hyde station soon.  “The boss says that one day, most police work’ll be just like this, an’ all,” Chris said, and Glen nodded.

“Makes sense.  Catch the bastards red-handed without even bein’ there, swoop in and bring ‘em in.  Makes a load a sense, that does,” Glen nodded, looking over at the receiver with a dubious expression.  “This an’ stakeouts an’ undercover work.  Why I joined up,” he added, and Chris smiled slightly as he nodded at him.

“Wha’ you think ‘bout that new ‘Greater Manchester Police’ thing they’re tryin’ to wrangle in?” Chris asked, and Glen looked thoughtfully at the burning end of his cigarette for a moment before responding.

“Makes sense, don’t it?  Group up city police, Salford, Wigan, Bolton, Tameside, Trafford…  Get us all communicatin,’ like.  Coppers workin’ together, fittin’ all the pieces up more closely.  Like this with Hyde: it’d be a lot harder for any of them lot to go bad, and any of our lot, too, if we were always workin’ together.  Won’t be that much of a change from the Lancashire Constabulary, you know, just different paperwork, different access to filings an’ all…  Change can be good.  Get everyone workin’ together, way that all of us are sharin’ information on this case.”

Chris nodded, “Might get to work together again.”

Glen gave Chris a smile, “Make a good team.  Who listens in on the suspects, who goes and gets the butties.”

“Delegation, the boss would say,” Chris added, and the two of them chuckled.  “No, but, you think you’ll have an easier time?”

“You mean ‘cause I’m colored?”  Glen raised an eyebrow, and Chris nodded.  “Was wonderin’ when you’d ask about that.”

“I just…  Is it hard, you know, bein’ different?”  Chris felt his own questions roiling up inside of him, but managed to keep quiet about them.

“Don’t think it’ll be that big of a change, really.  It’s not so different.  My bird, her family hate it.  She’s white,” Glen added the last bit softly, suddenly feeling ill at ease with Chris, who he’d been having no trouble speaking to just moments before.  He waited for Chris’ shocked reaction to come, but it never came.  Chris just nodded at him.

“Must be hard, that.  I’m sorry, mate,” Chris added, and Glen smiled at him.

“Nah, just the way things are.  ‘Sides, I do enough of a good job, stand out enough, people start to forget.  I used to try and blend in, keep a low head, but that was just rubbish, weren’t it?  DCI Norris, he knows how good I am, and he lets me do a lot more than any other DCI.  DCI Hunt, too.  He don’t seem to care, ‘long as I does me job right.  ‘S not like I’m a poof, or anything.”

Chris swallowed, hard.  “What would you say…”  He let his voice trail off, and Glen’s eyes widened.  Chris looked back at the radio, his head suddenly snapping up as they heard a sound issue from the receiver.

“You lost the bloody file.  That kind of incompetence is strictly inexcusable, Andrew.  Completely intolerable.”  The sounds were coming from the bug inside of Williams’ office, and the voice was definitely that of Frank Morgan.  “You’re sure you didn’t take it home?”

“Christ, Frank, I’m certain it was in here.  It’s not as if Sam’s going to come back and take it, now, is it?  No, it has to be in here somewhere - maybe it slipped inside of another folder and was misfiled…”  The second voice, that of DI Scarborough, crackled over the line, and Chris and Glen leaned in close to listen to the sounds.

“Then find it!”  Morgan’s voice boomed loudly over the background static on the radio, and both Chris and Glen leaned away from it again as they heard the sound of a door slamming.  The two of them continued to listen, and Scarborough’s voice came clearly through the line again, muttering.

“Sam wouldn’t have done this, Sam wouldn’t have done that, shite, this is just like my bird going on about her ex.  Have I ever left the bloody force to try and start an art career?  Have I ever blown an undercover operation with a string of killers, one of which was my own old DCI?  Fuck no, but here I am, second fiddle to Samuel bloody Williams, even after the daft bastard’s gone and gotten himself sliced to hell by some maniac.”

“He’s talkin’ to hisself?  Of all the luck…”  Glen gave Chris a wide grin, and pulled out a pad and pen, starting to take notes.  Chris looked down at the strange, sloping symbols on Glen’s pad and gave him a questioning look.  “Shorthand,” Glen said, and Chris nodded, his mouth quirking appreciatively at the idea; he made a mental note to learn shorthand himself, as soon as possible.

Scarborough’s speech continued to flood out over the radio, “Next thing I know, I’m gonna be Frank’s next little sacrificial lamb, aren’t I?  ‘Oh, I forgive you, here, and here, play bait for my little pet murderer, so I can double cross you right before I double cross him.’  Dumbshite Williams is getting what he deserved, and here I am, still being told he’d do a better job than me…  It’s not fucking here!”  Chris felt his eyes widen as he listened to Scarborough’s voice over the line, and his breath caught in his throat as the sounds of cabinets opening and being slammed shut, and of files rustling and being shoved about.  Muttered curses and small strings of words, “Yes Frank, no Frank, sodding Williams…  Where the fuck is it?  Goddamn missing files, shite, what if he took it and he’s gonna use that to blame me....  Fuck, fuck, shite, shite, shite…  Bloody…”

Glen looked at Chris, “You just hear what I heard?”

Chris looked over at Glen, “It’s not Williams.”

Glen swallowed, hard, “Then where the hell is Williams?  What’s he playin’ at?”

“What’re they all playin’ at?  Who sets up another copper to be killed, just to bring a third copper down?  Who bandies ‘bout with a bastard murderer?  Who…  Shite!”

Glen and Chris both heard the sound of Scarborough, shouting, “What the bloody…  Frank!  Lahr, get Morgan in here, now!”  Scarborough’s screams were far louder than his little self-speeches, and were followed by a loud, screeching, muffled sound that was unmistakably that of someone picking up the transmitter.

“Shite!” Glen echoed Chris, and then leapt forward, sliding easily into the driver’s seat of the van.  “Hold on, Skelton!” Glen shouted out, and he started the van’s engine and swerved maddeningly onto the road, driving back towards Manchester proper at a rate that would have impressed Gene.

As the van shimmied and swung along the roads, threatening to tip over at every curve, Chris finally found the ability to speak again, “We’ve got to tell the Gov.  Right away.”

“We’ve got to get a tail on Morgan, is what we’ve got to do,” Glen said, his eyes wide as he swerved over the road, eventually pulling up towards the Manchester police station and screeching to a halt in the parking lot.  “Get a tail on him, now.  That’s got to be it.  L.J.  That was the killer.  I saw ‘is notes for meetings with the killer, an’ the next one’s for tomorrow!  I remember it clear as day, the next one’s tomorrow!”

Chris climbed clumsily over the mess that had been made in the back of the van as boxes and electrical equipment had fallen and been tossed about by the force of the van’s motion, and eventually found himself in the front passenger seat.  “If we can get a tail on Morgan tomorrow, he’ll lead us to the killer.”

Glen snapped his fingers, “Surveillance.  Policing of the future.”

Chris and Glen exchanged grins, still feeling the end of the adrenaline high that had rushed through them when Scarborough had found the bug, and then the two of them climbed out of the van.  Both of them were still sporting wide grins as they nearly collided with Ray on their way from the car park to the stairs, and Chris felt his heart sink when he saw the angry, panicked look on Ray’s face.

“What the hell are you two doin’ here?  You’re s’posed to be at Hyde!”  Ray shouted, and Chris was certain that he was about to be punched, but the blow never landed, although Ray certainly looked like pounding someone’s face in would do him good.

“It’s not Williams.  And we know how we can find him,” Glen said, stepping back on one foot, as if he were readying himself for a fight with Ray, and Ray’s eyes went wide as his shoulders fell slightly, deflating from the rough fury that had filled him just seconds before.

“You what?  How in the soddin’ hell you figure that?”

“Look, we don’t have time, we need to get to DCI Hunt now,” Glen said, and Ray glowered at him.

“He’s at hospital.  Bastard’s been there again.  Come on, arses in line.  My car.”  Glen and Chris both felt their grins fall and their throats lock as they rushed after Ray, who had already pushed roughly past them and was making his way towards his own car, taking long, angry strides, “You bloody divs comin,’ or what?” Ray through over his shoulder, and the two of them piled into Ray’s car.  Together, the three of them sped towards the hospital, and Chris couldn’t keep the terror that he felt from showing on his face.

“Ray…  The Boss…”

“He’s alive.  But the Gov wants him out of there an’ all, said sommat about movin’ ‘im to a place where the bastard pervert can’t find ‘im.  Think he’s takin’ him back to ‘is place,” Ray grunted as he swung onto a side road, and Glen gave him a questioning look from the back seat.

“No good.  DCI Hunt’s address were in that file, same as DI Tyler’s.  That’d be the first place that the killer’d look,” Glen said, and Ray whipped his head around to stare at Glen, nearly ramming the car into a wall as he did so.

“You what?  What the hell’re you bloody talkin’?”

“The file, the one on DCI Hunt - it had Hunt’s address, and Tyler’s, in it,” Glen’s voice had a hard edge to it, and Chris looked back and forth between him and Ray, not daring to look at the street as they swerved about the road.

“Thought you said it weren’t Williams,” Ray growled, and Glen nodded.

“It’s not.  Not even sure how he’s wrapped up in it, truth be told, but he is, somehow.  But thing is, it’s Morgan that’s behind it, we know that for sure.  So we can’t go nowhere that Morgan would know about - it’ll have to be sommat else.”

The car screeched loudly into the hospital’s car park, and Chris had a fleeting thought that between the lot of them, enough rubber had been laid down on the streets of Manchester in the past weeks to make an entirely new tire.  He looked back at Glen, racking his brain for any thoughts of what other information had been in the files, and drawing a blank.  “Fletcher, did the file say sommat about other coppers, in A Division?”

Glen shook his head, “Nought.  Not any other addresses, I’m sure of it.”

Chris looked at Ray, and then Ray’s eyes widened as the three of them piled out of the car and started to make their way towards the hospital doors.

“Wakey wakey, little Sammy,” Sam heard his own voice, its tone smooth and mocking, in his ear, and he felt cold concrete beneath him.  He opened his eyes, and then closed them again when he saw the face of the little girl in front of them, so close that her face was nearly touching his.

“Come on, Sam, we’re waiting for you,” the little girl’s voice was pouty and anxious, and Sam felt her move away from him slightly before he opened his eyes again, and sat up slowly to find himself locked in the square room again.  The eight flat-panel monitors on the walls stared at him like the eyes of corpses, and the room was again filled with a dim, grey light, despite the lack of any visible lighting.  Sam looked up to see the double smiling at him, his own features contorted in a twisted leer on its face.

“That’s it, that’s a good boy, Sammy,” the double said, and Sam glared angrily up at him.

“What the bloody hell did you bring me back here for?” Sam asked, and the little girl laughed.

“We’re trying to help you, Sam.  We’re your friends.  Well, he is, at least.  I’ve given up.  You’re too mean,” the little girl said, and she stuck out her lower lip at him, a frown creasing her brow and darkening her eyes.

“If you want to help me, get me out of here.  Let me go,” Sam said, standing, and finding himself clothed in his 1973 clothing once more.  He turned and stared around the room, feeling the damp that was condensing on the walls, thick and clammy on his exposed skin, and even on the skin that was covered in his shirt and trousers.  “Let me go,” he repeated, and both the double and the little girl laughed their cold, sickening laughs.

“Now, now, Sammy, don’t bite the hand that feeds,” the double said, and he pointed at the wall behind Sam.  Sam turned and stared at it, and one of the monitors flared to life.  The entire screen was nothing more than blurred shapes, enshrouded in a deep, bright, sterile white cloud.  Sam winced at the brightness of it, and then tried to make out the shapes…  Was that…

“Mum!” Sam shouted, and ran towards the screen, nearly pressing his nose against it.  He took a few steps back so that he could stare at the entire picture, and saw a tall, blurred shape standing next to the blur that looked unmistakably like his mother.

Muffled sounds started to issue from the screen, and as they did, Sam suddenly realized that they weren’t coming from the screen at all, but that they were echoing in his ears.  “Due to the swelling over his brain that was caused by the accident, we were unable to get a clear picture, and the tumor is definitely in a very hard to read area of the brain.  We might be able to remove it; we’ve brought in a neurosurgeon that I’d like you to meet with,” Sam heard the voice of the maths program man clearly in his head, and he realized that he had another name for the voice: Doctor Matthews.

“So my Sammy has brain cancer?”  Sam heard the tears in his mother’s voice, amidst the muffled beeping and the hissing of the respirator that filled his ears, and he reached forward and slapped the wall, hard, with his open hand.

“Don’t you dare scare my mum!”  He screamed at the screen, and the voices in his head continued.

“We can’t be certain that it is cancerous, at this point, but it’s definitely the cause of the residual swelling that we’re seeing.  If you’d just come this way, the surgeon is waiting to meet with you, Mrs. Tyler,” Sam saw the blurs slowly moving away on the screen, and he realized that he was staring at the vision from his own eyes, his actual eyes in 2006; coma patients opened their eyes from time to time, didn’t they?  Sam shook his head as the figures faded from the screen, and he slapped at the wall again.

“Don’t you dare!  You stay put!  Mum!  You bastards, you stay put and tell me what’s happening!”  The screen flashed back to the deep, fuzzy grey of television snow, and Sam whirled around, staring at his double.

“That’s your little secret then, is it?  That’s what all this is supposed to mean?  Not only was I bowled over by a bloody car, but I’ve got cancer, as well?  There’s a bloody tumor in my head keeping me here, keeping me listening to all of your useless shite and playing all your sick games?”  Sam was shouting at the top of his lungs, and the little girl moved to stand behind the double, throwing an angry, not quite frightened look his way.

“Now, Sam, be quiet.  You’re scaring her,” the double said, patting the little girl on the head, and Sam sneered back at the double.

“Not bloody likely,” Sam said, and the double sneered right back at him, a menacing, dark look that Sam was frightened to find staring back at him from his own features.

“All right, Sam, calm down.  Calm down and concentrate.  What did you think of our little clue from earlier?”  The double’s voice took on the strained, feigned patience of someone trying to explain a basic fact to a child that simply refused to listen, and Sam felt his fists clench at his sides.

“What the hell was I supposed to think of it?  What the hell was that thing?” Sam screamed, not sure if he was referring to the monster, or to the hideous, stone-laden crop circle that had filled the field below the bluff.

“Sam, you know what that was.  You know what all of it is, don’t you?  There’s a storm coming,” the double said, and he smiled at Sam, a dark, knowing smile, a twisted thing that made all of his features seem incredibly sinister, and Sam felt his blood run cold as he saw that expression on his own face, staring back at him.

“What the hell do you mean…”  Sam’s voice trailed off as the sounds of wind howling suddenly surrounded him, and he looked about to find himself standing in the middle of the field, the piles of stone that made up the symbol surrounding him, piled so high that they were up to his knees.  He looked up, and saw the sky again, dark and pulsing, seething like the breath moving in and out of a living creature.  He heard thunder rumbling in the distance, and realized that the air was still…  The air, which had just seconds before been so violent, so hard, had become hideously, impossibly still, unmoving and dead, despite the clouds rolling overhead.

“There’s a storm coming, Sam.  Best be ready,” the double said, and suddenly the world went dark around Sam, and he heard distant voices surrounding him…