Fic: Undercover, Sex Parties, and why Communism.... 2/2
See part one for disclaimers:
His mouth is dry, it’s the most frightened Gene’s ever been. There’s a certain tone that Hunt knows how to listen for, eyes fixed and unmoving, watching Sam for the faintest trace of rejection. He curls his fingers around the empty bracelet, dragging Tyler’s cuffed hand to the centre of his spine. Tyler is balls-deep inside Mrs. Luckhurst, movements restricted. Gene catalogues the silent struggle, myriad emotions that surge over Sam’s face, his fingers twitching spasmodically. Gene waits five seconds, lets it drag out to ten, and when Sam still says nothing, he captures Tyler’s left hand too, turning the arm carefully and locking it into place. Sam shakes once, hands chained behind him, his ability to thrust effectively hampered.
Sam rocks experimentally, too shallow and no longer deep enough, his expression going tight as he realises. Gene pets him. "So Twilling fell in love with Sandra Trottman," Hunt says conversationally. "How did Carol react to that?"
Sam drops his head to Mrs. Luckhurst’s chest. "Bastard."
Gene acknowledges the slur, one hand resting on Sam’s buttocks, thumb stroking toward the shadowed crevasse and out again, his movements circular and wide. It couldn’t be that much different, Gene supposes, the mechanics, the basic ins and outs, remain the same. He’s a copper, healthy curiosity is a given.
"How would any woman react?" Mrs. Luckhurst scoffs, "I didn’t think men were prone to gossip."
"Oh, he’s a regular tabloid."
Sam shifts minutely, hands testing the grade of metal. It’s solid, Gene knows, Tyler’s not going anywhere unless Gene releases him, and it’s strange, how Sam didn’t trust Mrs. Luckhurst to do this. "Are you calling me a Jackie Queen, lad?"
Sam freezes, correctly interpreting his guv’s tone. Gene considers, then leans forward and bites him, teeth tightening on the slope between shoulder and neck. Gene increases the pressure until he has a reaction, until Sam starts to squirm and curse, until he tries to gather his weight under his knees, preparing to push away from Mrs. Luckhurst, hands bound, awkward as a newborn colt. Roughly, Gene pushes him down again, rocking him in a pantomime until Mrs. Luckhurst moans, until Sam bites his lip. Hunt was screwing her fifteen minutes ago, and despite all of his heated urgency, he’s not keen to go back, as a warning to stay put, he swats Sam hard across the arse, the sound cracking the silence. Mrs. Luckhurst flutters, grinding upward against the transmuted sensation. Sam goes rigid with surprise.
Gene watches his handprint blossom over ivory skin. He’s a copper, every new piece of evidence needs to be reviewed. He spends half a minute with the blood rushing in his ears, waiting for Tyler to scream bloody murder, but Sam has fallen mute, shoulders heaving. Gene’s not attracted to men; and although he plays the part, he’s barely attracted to women. In truth, he spends any spare time at the pub, in full company, soaking up the ambience of his team, celebrating their wins and falls aggressively. When he’s not sober, when Nelson pushes him out the door, he’ll stagger home to Elise and collapse on her bed, before waking up and doing it all over again. He‘s never looked twice at a man before. Not until SambloodyTyler waltzed into his station. Sam is clever, and he’s selfish - like a pale reflection of all of Gene’s opposites - Hunt will stitch up a blagger without qualm, but he does it for the victim, not for personal glory. Sam will only fit up a crook if it suits his own agenda. For Sam, it has to be personal. Gene’s friendly with Ray, but with Sam, it’s like the tumble of locks in a hidden vault, click-click-clicking into place. If it were a Western, Sam would be the bloody stallion that bites your hand off - but he’d take you for a ride while doing it - and Gene‘s always needed some form of adversity. They’re more alike than either one of them will care to admit.
He’s never fucked a man before, with Mrs. Luckhurst participating, Gene can convince himself that it’s a threesome, not gay at all.
Cautiously, Gene parts Tyler’s cheeks, his heart hammering, and darts his tongue down, licking hard against velvet flesh. Sam convulses against him. Gene’s always been tactile, physicality reveals more honesty than words ever have. His first move is clumsy with haste, curiosity and fear jangling his nerves. Gathering his courage, Gene flattens his tongue and swipes again - slow, methodical - hands kneading. It takes Gene a further minute to comprehend that no objection has been raised, that the flash-flood of fear raging through him is unfounded.
Mrs. Luckhurst is moving, her hips snapping upward. Whatever’s happening, Gene doesn’t want it witnessed by someone else; whatever’s happening, it never would have occurred without her. There’s a surge of conflicted ugliness, when Gene realises he doesn’t want her in the room, that her presence is now awkward, a convenient excuse. It’s selfishness, an emotion Gene casts aside; useless as a safety barrier after a car wreck. It’s sex, Gene reminds himself, and like Carol Twilling tried to enforce, it doesn’t have to mean a bloody thing.
He spends five minutes alternating between teasing flicks and harder probes, widening Sam up with a patience many would have thought non-existent. Sam doesn’t taste like anything Gene imagined. He doesn’t want to hurt Tyler - not in this - so he finds the lube, slicks them both with feigned competency. It feels like Sam is barely breathing, head buried in Mrs. Luckhurst’s breasts, the soft chime of the handcuffs his only movement. When Gene pulls away, he notices that Sam’s eyes are squeezed shut, breathing erratically.
Gene places his hands on Tyler’s hips and guides him out of her body, steadying Sam until he catches his balance, kneeling upright on the bed. Hunt breathes out and aligns his cock, pushing in hard until he finds his target. Sam’s muscles cord. His eyes snap open. He hasn’t done this before either, Gene realises.
Mrs. Luckhurst watches them avidly, shifting her body to the side. With infinite care, Gene places his hand against Sam’s nape and pushes him forward. He feels a moment of resistance, when Tyler looks ready to buck him off, jaw clenching tight. Hunt doesn’t adjust the amount of force, just keeps bending him steadily down, until he doubles over, forehead against the bed, arse canted high. Gene strokes in half-way.
Sam makes a sound, hands knotting. Possessively, Gene tangles one fist around the handcuffs and jerks Tyler upright again, letting Sam’s own body weight complete the insertion - that much smaller than him - gravity and lube do the rest, Sam sinks.
Tyler’s gasping, breathing shallow, as if anything deeper hurts, the muscles in his thighs turn into corded steel. Gene wraps an arm around his shoulders and blocks the instinctive rise, with his free hand, he strokes Sam’s belly, pushing inexorably until he’s seated deeply as he can go. Sam’s hotter, tighter, than any woman Gene’s been in, internal muscles moulding to Gene’s cock like a fitted glove. He could have been kinder, Gene muses, and if he ever wins another chance, he just might.
Sam’s no longer hard, erection lost, body quivering under foreign stress. Hunt’s not a fan of rape, but saying nothing is not the same as rejecting, so unless Gene has a definitive signal, he doesn’t plan to stop. Gene rolls the empty condom from Sam’s reduced anatomy and catches Mrs. Luckhurst’s eye. She grins wickedly, licking her lips, then closes her mouth over the softened shaft, cheeks hollowing as she sucks him up like a Hoover. Gene drops his hands to Sam’s buttocks and parts him just a little bit further, letting Tyler sink another half inch.
Caught between the two of them, the sound Sam makes is close to a sob. He rocks sideways in a curious half-motion, as if not certain how to escape.
Mrs. Luckhurst tightens her mouth and bobs her head, revealing pink glimpses of her tongue as she swirls down his length. Gene watches critically. Mrs Luckhurst really did miss her calling, the woman‘s a natural born tart. It takes every ounce of self-control Gene has to remain still, to give Sam the time needed to adjust. He wants to burrow deep and never come out. It’s silk, addiction, and no wonder he’s never tried this before, Gene doesn’t think he could have given it up, not even for Elise. He feels feverish, sheathed in fire. His hips want to snap upward. The scent of sex hangs in the air like the haze of an opium den. He feels the moment when Tyler begins to unwind, the way he groans deep in his throat, the flash of triumph in Mrs. Luckhurst’s eyes. She kisses the tip of Tyler’s cock, letting Gene see that she has him hard again. Sam shifts minutely, dragging up Gene’s length, then shivers, caught between chasing her mouth and the foreign presence lodged deep inside. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and Sam’s the living see-saw between them.
Gene squeezes his eyes shut, panting, so close to coming that it looms like an on-coming freight-train.
Gradually, control creeps back. He tightens his hands around Tyler’s hips and moves. Sam has to work at Gene’s pace, and there’s a primitive satisfaction that seizes him, that, in direct opposition, makes Gene so much gentler. He has his mouth at Tyler’s ear, whispering encouragement, filthy promises, his fingers mapping every muscle and spasm. He can feel Sam’s fingers scramble against his stomach, the cool band of steel that scrapes against him intermittingly, a dose of near-pain that keeps Gene focussed. He can feel the way Sam flexes at every withdrawal, lithe muscle and the way his body sucks him back in again, a silent welcome.
Mrs. Luckhurst works in direct opposition, going down on Sam whenever Gene thrusts up, deep-throating like a professional. Five minutes of steady silence until Sam cries out, until his body turns boneless, unable to decipher which sensation to pay heed to. Discomfit bleeds into pleasure and turns into something altogether new. Already, Gene wants to do this again. He wants to say the name caught on the edge of his tongue.
He ignores Sam’s protest when he orders Mrs. Luckhurst clear - choosing to wrap his hand around Tyler’s shaft instead - maintaining soul dominance. The extra effort required to stay upright, to fuck like this, is the only thing that’s kept Gene from coming. He strips Sam’s cock with the same punishing rhythm that Gene uses on himself. "Come on, come on…" Gene mouths. Tyler clenches against him, impossibly tight.
Gene feels his own orgasm in sounds of colour and light, in vibrant shades, it feels like a heart attack, like the first rush of on-coming speed. Barely coherent, Gene flicks his wrist around Sam’s cock, thumb pressing hard against the weeping crown, and inserts his nail into the slit. Sam howls, slamming down, his entire body cracking open like a lava bed. His muscles seize, so intense it almost renders Hunt unconscious.
Gene can no longer move, he wants to thrust but he’s forgotten how to withdraw. He honestly can’t see for a moment, staring blind, his cock encased in rippling bliss, penetrating Sam in every sense. His own body locks as his orgasm crests, balls emptying, time suspended until he can’t draw a single breath. Gene crashes down, pinning Tyler beneath him. Sam quakes, coming relentlessly, body still struggling as he messes the sheets and his own stomach.
Mrs. Luckhurst is the first thing Gene Hunt becomes aware of, her fingers stroke through his hair, brushing the fringe from his eyes. His muscles feel like jelly, every minor complaint and ache in his body exorcised. He’s still buried balls-deep inside of Tyler, his skin over-sensitive. Strangely, pulling out feels more ridiculous than going in, emotion that he’s managed to hold at bay swarms to the forefront of his thoughts. It’s possible he just demolished something he doesn’t know how to handle. He fucked his D.I, never once had the courage to look him in the eye - and if Tyler utters a single word - then Gene’s career, his aspirations, his marriage, will be rubble.
He had it wrong before, he thinks with exhausted certainty, this is what fear really tastes like.
Sam hisses when he pulls out. Tyler breathes deeply for a moment, gathering himself, then turns onto his side. His mouth is slack, soft at the edges, he looks more fuckable now than before. Mrs. Luckhurst leans down and kisses him, nibbling his lower lip gently. Sam responds, languid, his eyes half veiled.
Gene doesn’t recognise his own voice. "Where’s the key?"
"Top draw," Mrs. Luckhurst responds, "although I’d like to keep the cuffs on longer…if you don’t mind. I could teach you some things." She smiles without recrimination, as if she already knows what the answer will be.
Gene thinks about the equipment in the room; he thinks about fucking Sam’s mouth, he thinks about clamps and paraphernalia that he’s never once needed before, and finally, he thinks about how Tony Blair’s ménage la trio will vanish for good after they exit this room. He lets his fingers trail through the mess on Tyler’s stomach and says roughly, "Give me the key, already."
He can feel Sam’s stare, burning into him, assessing. They could punch it out, or sweep it under the carpet. Sam could screw him over with the brass seven ways to Sunday, or, as a worse-case scenario, try to blackmail him. Every time they differ on a case, Gene will be walking the electric-wire in a thunderstorm, waiting for Tyler to shove him in the back with a verbal joust. He needs to sort this out but Gene doesn’t know how.
"You know, you have more in common with Jackie Queen than I thought. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re flailing about in a girly panic." Sam’s voice is unexpected, lined with subversive humour.
It’s the one response Gene hadn’t counted on. His head jerks up sharply, "I’m not a queen, and I’m not the one who had a cock up his arse."
"Right, you’re a perfect one on the Kinsey scale."
"Kinsey-whatsey?" Gene frowns as Mrs. Luckhurst unlocks the handcuffs. Sam rubs at his wrist before sitting upright gingerly, he favours one side, Gene notices, nor can he quite hide his wince.
Sam says sotto voce, "That felt pretty real."
"I’m just going to clean up," Mrs. Luckhurst demurs. She slips a gown on, one of those Japanese affairs, and closes the door behind her.
Gene raises an eyebrow at Sam’s remark. "If that’s how you sweet-talk all the birds after getting your jollies off, then no wonder you’re still alone in that charming little bed-sit."
"And I suppose a declaration of undying love is more your style?"
Gene opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, picking his way through a verbal mine-field of admissions - and the bugger of the thing is - Tyler is right.
Three little words spoken in the heat of passion, and Gene Hunt was married faster than RDG Willis' speed-ball. He frowns, off-balance. Tyler watches him, the humour barely veiled, and Gene has the uncomfortable sensation that he’s revealed too much, that Sam’s reading him as easily as yesterday’s newspaper. It’s painfully awkward to acknowledge. "We’re not… we’re not going to mention this again. Ever." It’s a question wrapped up in an order, with a side-dish of uncertainty. Hunt’s never dithered in his life, always a man with a straight course of action, but he needs Sam on his side for this to work.
Tyler quirks an eyebrow, then pushes off from the bed, pulling on his underwear and jeans carefully. The denim’s faded, barely staying on, they cling to Tyler’s hips on a whim and a prayer. His voice is methodical, pulling in the jigsaw pieces of scattered information, "So Roger organises the parties and Carol Twilling feels marginalised, or inadequate, because of them. It still leaves us with three possible motives."
Beneath the immediate sense of relief, there’s a flicker of disappointment, that Sam won’t fight. That it really can be swept under the carpet. "Right," Gene says slowly. "Roger topped her in a moment of kinky passion."
"He’s a submissive. Physically, the only one who would be in a position of sexual vulnerability would be Roger Twilling."
Gene continues as if Tyler hadn’t interrupted, sorting his clothing out briskly. "What if she tried to blackmail him?"
"Possible. Mrs. Luckhurst said he fell in love. It would be easier if we knew if Sandra Trottman returned those feelings or not, which leaves…"
Third party, Gene thinks, remembering the spark of possessiveness when he had to share Sam with Mrs. Luckhurst. Screw whoever you want but don’t be emotional about it - like communism - it’s grand in theory and a bloody muddle in reality, people aren’t that simple, greed and self priority step in the way, that first noble rule becomes a mockery in the long run because human beings aren’t unattached, they’re emotional, messy, and their desires are all over the place.
He’s staring at Sam, at the marks he left on Tyler’s body, footprints on an unblemished beach - I was here, I walked this trail - before the evidence can be washed away. Sam pulls his shirt on, eyes glinting dark, and returns Gene’s stare without flinching.
"Stay down!" The words are muted through closed doors, aggressive, and unmistakably Annie.
Tyler’s head snaps around, already moving. Gene turns on his heel, chasing the voices until he identifies a room three doors down from theirs. W.D.C Cartwright, unlike when she decided to jump over a bridge, has managed to keep her bra on this time. Roger Twilling is trussed up like a Christmas turkey, his skin stripped red from a flogger that Cartwright wields with alarming competency. Annie’s eyes pop open as they burst in, embarrassed surprise colouring her features. Twilling looks dazed, craning his neck around to see behind. "I had him calling out names, guv," Annie blurts out, her excuse framed readily.
Gene bites down on his remark, and tugs the ropes loose from Twilling’s wrists, hauling him upright. He doesn’t doubt Annie. Enthusiasm, Gene knows, can carry a person through almost anything, but explaining to Superintendent Rathbone how their key suspect became the victim of a sexual flogging is not something Gene will ever cherish. Pulling Roger in quick seems prudent.
"Nice act, little girl, you really had me going." Twilling stands unsteadily, his shorts tented with the outline of his arousal. He smiles at Cartwright, canting his hip suggestively.
Sam sinks his fist into Roger’s stomach. Twilling buckles, doubling over and Gene has to tighten his grip just to keep him upright. "Now that," Hunt announces, "is the future of policing."
***********
It hurts. He can’t find a comfortable place to rest, skidding down until his bum sits on the edge of the seat. He looks more like an insolent fifteen year old than a respectable copper, every time Sam breathes in he feels a phantom ache, emptiness inside.
Saving Denise Williams and arresting Carol Twilling was the start of his on-going migraine. Caught red-handed, Carol didn’t so much confess as turn into a Linda Blair, spewing forth a list of grievances and pet hates that were longer than a Stephen King novel. By the time Annie locked her in the cell, Carol was threatening to spill the sordid details to the newspapers, which is why the three of them are now sitting in front of Superintendent Rathbone’s desk at 4:45 in the afternoon. He’s been yelling non-stop for over ten minutes and Gene Hunt’s influence seems to be catching, because honestly, Sam only wants a stiff drink.
He shifts again, feeling a flare of pain dart up his spine like an arrowhead. The guv’s eyes settle on him briefly, then move away. Sam doesn’t know why he submitted (and that word in itself makes his fingers clench, makes his stomach twist in a gordian knot - submission - when Sam‘s never bent his neck to anyone) except that the voices inside his head have been silent for over a week now.
He’s scared. He wasn’t expecting the entreaties and encouragement to dry up, to be beached in a permanent delusion, to be so alone. If they’re talking to him, Sam can convince himself he’ll be okay, to hold firm; the low mutter of a nurse or his mother reading from a newspaper is all Sam needs to ground himself. One week of total absence, of growing deprivation, and he was clawing for a connection. Any connection.
There’s no one left - except the people and faces of 1973.
It hurts. Rough trade. Bruises on his neck, skin rubbed raw in all the right places, a man to his left who showed Sam he was still alive, that he feels. If he’s going to be stuck in a hallucination then there ought to be some measure of comfort. Sam’s never given over control, never free-fallen like that, lost in disparate sensation, floating between worlds. He feels like the satyr who defied the gods, skin flayed in punishment and peeled to a deeper layer. He’s never come so hard in his life.
2006 has faded from his grasp; but Gene Hunt made him sweat, bleed, and curse, made him come, and that’s as visceral, as real, as Sam can possibly get. He won’t regret it. He won’t let Annie or his D.C.I take a fall because of it.
"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?!" Rathbone’s face is gaunt in the fading light, his bones angular.
At times like this, Sam doesn’t know how Hunt ever achieved the rank of D.C.I. - the only senior police officer he showed any respect to was Harry Wolfe - and his tone now is this side of insubordinate. "Joint marriage between surveillance and undercover techniques, sir, it‘s the latest thing from Hyde."
"And that justifies you tying down a revered businessman from the Chorlton district and spanking him?!!!"
"Steady on, sir, ‘revered’ is carrying things a little too far."
"Hunt, you’re like a three year old bully. You’d push a suspect right over the edge of Dover cliff and claim it was all in decent fun. You don’t know what ‘pushing’ is."
"What, exactly, is Carol Twilling alluding to, sir?" Sam interrupts. If Rathbone turns any redder he’ll stroke himself out, and while Sam doesn’t think Annie or the guv will be heartbroken about his subsequent death, they will be when they see the amount of paperwork involved.
"Sex parties," Rathbone bites out.
"With all due respect, our inquiries concerned the murder and subsequent kidnapping of two Beauvoir ladies, that Roger Twilling hosted sex parties was already known."
"Yet you saw fit to go in as undercover operatives!"
"D.C.I Hunt and myself conducted an interview with one Mrs. Luckhurst, the proceeds of which led to a greater understanding of the personal alliances and rules involved in these parties. W.D.C Cartwright interviewed Roger Twilling, and conducted herself in full accordance with her oaths as a member of the constabulatory. At no stage was Carol Twilling involved in either of these interviews." Sam tilts his head, "She was assigned to Pete Cronin’s room on the night in question. Whatever she thought may have occurred remains exactly that, speculation, with no corroboration from any third party."
"Don’t play smart with me, lad, what if I was to question Mrs. Luckhurst or Roger Twilling?"
"We caught a killer today," Gene says flatly, "and saved a woman’s life."
"I think, sir, given the nature of the activities, that both Mrs. Luckhurst and Mr. Twilling will be keen to distance themselves from the case, along with anyone else who attended," Annie’s voice is shaky, but she doesn’t back down from Rathbone’s stare. "Maybe Carol Twilling is trying to discredit the arresting police officers."
"It wouldn’t be the first time," Gene says mock-thoughtfully.
"Nor would it be the first time I’ve heard that particular excuse," Rathbone spits. His eyes rove over the three of them, "Get out of my sight, and if any one of you has the misfortune of causing another stir, then you’ll be sure to see the end of my boot, right before I kick you off the force."
Gene stands, "Thanks for the congratulations sir, you know, for ridding the streets of another murderer, your continued support makes this job all the more rewarding."
"Out."
Hunt’s halfway out the door when he mutters sub-audibly, "Prick. I'll get Cartwright to tickle his arse with a feather."
If Sam thought Rathbone was red before, then he clearly mistook the colour spectrum. Annie goes white as a sheet when the Superintendent roars, "What did he say!!!???"
"Particularly nasty weather." Sam blurts out. "It’s what he said, I mean, because you asked, and it is, don‘t you think?" Gene turns on his heel, quirking an eyebrow, dangerous humour lurking behind his eyes.
"It’s twenty-five degrees out!" Rathbone snaps.
He’s dying here, Sam opens his mouth, floundering…
Annie's voice cuts in, all sugary sweet and pure panic, "I know, isn’t it so, not a raindrop in sight, sir, and here’s me with my brolly just loving a good hint of rain. The sun does such terrible things to your skin"
Rathbone quivers, lip drawn back, eyes flashing between the three of them, trying to ferret out the truth. Annie squeezes Sam's arm, her eyes impossibly wide, then darts out the door. Sam waits another fraction of a second before he follows the guv. Hunt looks like he’s trying hard not to laugh, murmuring aside, "Is that your idea of poetry, Tyler? Particularly nasty weather equals I‘ll tickle your arse with a feather?"
"You’re a fucking twat." He’ll never make it past D.C.I, Sam thinks. Gene loves the fight too much, he‘ll sabotage himself before he’ll ever sit behind a desk. Sam joined the force with a career plan, he was going to be Superintendent before his fortieth birthday, and now he’s 2IC to a lunatic in 1973.
"It’s the Gene Genie magic," Hunt boasts happily, "everyone leaps to my defence."
Disgruntled, Sam says, "David Bowie’s song was about Jean Genet, the Gene Genie, lying flat on his back… you named yourself after a homosexual prostitute."
Hunt almost trips down the stairs. Annie bites her lip. Sam can smell her perfume, feel her stifled laughter as she leans against him, "You timed that on purpose," she whispers into his ear. There's nothing ordinary about her, from the very start Annie was a surprise, confidante and friend, all the pieces in between. She'd done it, broken rules and placed a transmitter within Roger's car, cracked the case wide open, and Sam can see the mettle in her spine, the way she holds herself that much taller. Vindicated. Sam knew from the first that she was someone to be reckoned with - a sweet smile that detracts from the whip in her hand - multifaceted and bright as a diamond. The guv recovers himself, his stare accusing as they part ways and fall into step with him. It was Annie's win today, and Sam knows Hunt will make that common knowledge, that he'll broadcast it brusquely to every man in C.I.D. when the opportunity is right.
The guv's eyes are narrowed, squinting like a gunslinger as he threatens Sam, "Don‘t you dare utter that to anyone else."
"More secret layers than an onion, guv." Some things, after all, ought to remain private.
Gene looks at him searchingly, then nods. "Pub?"
"God, yes."
FINI.
Dialogue from 2:04, as written by Ashley Pharoah.
GH: Evening all. I see you started without us. RT:Who the hell are you?
GH: Didn't you tell 'em we were coming?
ST: I thought you... chickened out. Roger, this is my friend... Gordon... Brown. And his... wife.
SUKI: Suki.
RT: Woah, woah, woah, woah. This is an invite-only party.
GH: He invited me.
ST: I- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Roger. I... Gordon's a good friend, I got over-excited, I must have let it slip.
GH: I love a party, I'm very discreet.
RT: This is my house, Tony. I decide who gets invited.
ST: I understand that. I- I... I'm sorry. We should go.
AC: If you go, you go without me. I'm enjoying myself.
ML: I think Mr Brown should be allowed to stay.
GH: Thank you, er... Mrs...
ML: Mrs Luckhurst.
RT: You four stay here. We'll discuss this in the kitchen.
ST: What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?
GH: Your stupid bloody radio stopped working so I had to find out what was happening in here.
ST: Who's *she*?
GH: Suki. I let her off an arrest last week for lewd behaviour. She owed me.
ST: She's a prostitute.
SUKI: I am here, you know.
GH: Well, you didn't think I was gonna fetch my own wife here, did you?
ST: Okay. This is getting out of hand. You were right. We should just pull him in.
AC: No! He's gonna give himself away, I just know he is!
GH: Good girl, Cartwright, at least somebody's got some balls.
RT: Mr Brown. Your keys.
GH: Now that's the future of policing
His mouth is dry, it’s the most frightened Gene’s ever been. There’s a certain tone that Hunt knows how to listen for, eyes fixed and unmoving, watching Sam for the faintest trace of rejection. He curls his fingers around the empty bracelet, dragging Tyler’s cuffed hand to the centre of his spine. Tyler is balls-deep inside Mrs. Luckhurst, movements restricted. Gene catalogues the silent struggle, myriad emotions that surge over Sam’s face, his fingers twitching spasmodically. Gene waits five seconds, lets it drag out to ten, and when Sam still says nothing, he captures Tyler’s left hand too, turning the arm carefully and locking it into place. Sam shakes once, hands chained behind him, his ability to thrust effectively hampered.
Sam rocks experimentally, too shallow and no longer deep enough, his expression going tight as he realises. Gene pets him. "So Twilling fell in love with Sandra Trottman," Hunt says conversationally. "How did Carol react to that?"
Sam drops his head to Mrs. Luckhurst’s chest. "Bastard."
Gene acknowledges the slur, one hand resting on Sam’s buttocks, thumb stroking toward the shadowed crevasse and out again, his movements circular and wide. It couldn’t be that much different, Gene supposes, the mechanics, the basic ins and outs, remain the same. He’s a copper, healthy curiosity is a given.
"How would any woman react?" Mrs. Luckhurst scoffs, "I didn’t think men were prone to gossip."
"Oh, he’s a regular tabloid."
Sam shifts minutely, hands testing the grade of metal. It’s solid, Gene knows, Tyler’s not going anywhere unless Gene releases him, and it’s strange, how Sam didn’t trust Mrs. Luckhurst to do this. "Are you calling me a Jackie Queen, lad?"
Sam freezes, correctly interpreting his guv’s tone. Gene considers, then leans forward and bites him, teeth tightening on the slope between shoulder and neck. Gene increases the pressure until he has a reaction, until Sam starts to squirm and curse, until he tries to gather his weight under his knees, preparing to push away from Mrs. Luckhurst, hands bound, awkward as a newborn colt. Roughly, Gene pushes him down again, rocking him in a pantomime until Mrs. Luckhurst moans, until Sam bites his lip. Hunt was screwing her fifteen minutes ago, and despite all of his heated urgency, he’s not keen to go back, as a warning to stay put, he swats Sam hard across the arse, the sound cracking the silence. Mrs. Luckhurst flutters, grinding upward against the transmuted sensation. Sam goes rigid with surprise.
Gene watches his handprint blossom over ivory skin. He’s a copper, every new piece of evidence needs to be reviewed. He spends half a minute with the blood rushing in his ears, waiting for Tyler to scream bloody murder, but Sam has fallen mute, shoulders heaving. Gene’s not attracted to men; and although he plays the part, he’s barely attracted to women. In truth, he spends any spare time at the pub, in full company, soaking up the ambience of his team, celebrating their wins and falls aggressively. When he’s not sober, when Nelson pushes him out the door, he’ll stagger home to Elise and collapse on her bed, before waking up and doing it all over again. He‘s never looked twice at a man before. Not until SambloodyTyler waltzed into his station. Sam is clever, and he’s selfish - like a pale reflection of all of Gene’s opposites - Hunt will stitch up a blagger without qualm, but he does it for the victim, not for personal glory. Sam will only fit up a crook if it suits his own agenda. For Sam, it has to be personal. Gene’s friendly with Ray, but with Sam, it’s like the tumble of locks in a hidden vault, click-click-clicking into place. If it were a Western, Sam would be the bloody stallion that bites your hand off - but he’d take you for a ride while doing it - and Gene‘s always needed some form of adversity. They’re more alike than either one of them will care to admit.
He’s never fucked a man before, with Mrs. Luckhurst participating, Gene can convince himself that it’s a threesome, not gay at all.
Cautiously, Gene parts Tyler’s cheeks, his heart hammering, and darts his tongue down, licking hard against velvet flesh. Sam convulses against him. Gene’s always been tactile, physicality reveals more honesty than words ever have. His first move is clumsy with haste, curiosity and fear jangling his nerves. Gathering his courage, Gene flattens his tongue and swipes again - slow, methodical - hands kneading. It takes Gene a further minute to comprehend that no objection has been raised, that the flash-flood of fear raging through him is unfounded.
Mrs. Luckhurst is moving, her hips snapping upward. Whatever’s happening, Gene doesn’t want it witnessed by someone else; whatever’s happening, it never would have occurred without her. There’s a surge of conflicted ugliness, when Gene realises he doesn’t want her in the room, that her presence is now awkward, a convenient excuse. It’s selfishness, an emotion Gene casts aside; useless as a safety barrier after a car wreck. It’s sex, Gene reminds himself, and like Carol Twilling tried to enforce, it doesn’t have to mean a bloody thing.
He spends five minutes alternating between teasing flicks and harder probes, widening Sam up with a patience many would have thought non-existent. Sam doesn’t taste like anything Gene imagined. He doesn’t want to hurt Tyler - not in this - so he finds the lube, slicks them both with feigned competency. It feels like Sam is barely breathing, head buried in Mrs. Luckhurst’s breasts, the soft chime of the handcuffs his only movement. When Gene pulls away, he notices that Sam’s eyes are squeezed shut, breathing erratically.
Gene places his hands on Tyler’s hips and guides him out of her body, steadying Sam until he catches his balance, kneeling upright on the bed. Hunt breathes out and aligns his cock, pushing in hard until he finds his target. Sam’s muscles cord. His eyes snap open. He hasn’t done this before either, Gene realises.
Mrs. Luckhurst watches them avidly, shifting her body to the side. With infinite care, Gene places his hand against Sam’s nape and pushes him forward. He feels a moment of resistance, when Tyler looks ready to buck him off, jaw clenching tight. Hunt doesn’t adjust the amount of force, just keeps bending him steadily down, until he doubles over, forehead against the bed, arse canted high. Gene strokes in half-way.
Sam makes a sound, hands knotting. Possessively, Gene tangles one fist around the handcuffs and jerks Tyler upright again, letting Sam’s own body weight complete the insertion - that much smaller than him - gravity and lube do the rest, Sam sinks.
Tyler’s gasping, breathing shallow, as if anything deeper hurts, the muscles in his thighs turn into corded steel. Gene wraps an arm around his shoulders and blocks the instinctive rise, with his free hand, he strokes Sam’s belly, pushing inexorably until he’s seated deeply as he can go. Sam’s hotter, tighter, than any woman Gene’s been in, internal muscles moulding to Gene’s cock like a fitted glove. He could have been kinder, Gene muses, and if he ever wins another chance, he just might.
Sam’s no longer hard, erection lost, body quivering under foreign stress. Hunt’s not a fan of rape, but saying nothing is not the same as rejecting, so unless Gene has a definitive signal, he doesn’t plan to stop. Gene rolls the empty condom from Sam’s reduced anatomy and catches Mrs. Luckhurst’s eye. She grins wickedly, licking her lips, then closes her mouth over the softened shaft, cheeks hollowing as she sucks him up like a Hoover. Gene drops his hands to Sam’s buttocks and parts him just a little bit further, letting Tyler sink another half inch.
Caught between the two of them, the sound Sam makes is close to a sob. He rocks sideways in a curious half-motion, as if not certain how to escape.
Mrs. Luckhurst tightens her mouth and bobs her head, revealing pink glimpses of her tongue as she swirls down his length. Gene watches critically. Mrs Luckhurst really did miss her calling, the woman‘s a natural born tart. It takes every ounce of self-control Gene has to remain still, to give Sam the time needed to adjust. He wants to burrow deep and never come out. It’s silk, addiction, and no wonder he’s never tried this before, Gene doesn’t think he could have given it up, not even for Elise. He feels feverish, sheathed in fire. His hips want to snap upward. The scent of sex hangs in the air like the haze of an opium den. He feels the moment when Tyler begins to unwind, the way he groans deep in his throat, the flash of triumph in Mrs. Luckhurst’s eyes. She kisses the tip of Tyler’s cock, letting Gene see that she has him hard again. Sam shifts minutely, dragging up Gene’s length, then shivers, caught between chasing her mouth and the foreign presence lodged deep inside. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and Sam’s the living see-saw between them.
Gene squeezes his eyes shut, panting, so close to coming that it looms like an on-coming freight-train.
Gradually, control creeps back. He tightens his hands around Tyler’s hips and moves. Sam has to work at Gene’s pace, and there’s a primitive satisfaction that seizes him, that, in direct opposition, makes Gene so much gentler. He has his mouth at Tyler’s ear, whispering encouragement, filthy promises, his fingers mapping every muscle and spasm. He can feel Sam’s fingers scramble against his stomach, the cool band of steel that scrapes against him intermittingly, a dose of near-pain that keeps Gene focussed. He can feel the way Sam flexes at every withdrawal, lithe muscle and the way his body sucks him back in again, a silent welcome.
Mrs. Luckhurst works in direct opposition, going down on Sam whenever Gene thrusts up, deep-throating like a professional. Five minutes of steady silence until Sam cries out, until his body turns boneless, unable to decipher which sensation to pay heed to. Discomfit bleeds into pleasure and turns into something altogether new. Already, Gene wants to do this again. He wants to say the name caught on the edge of his tongue.
He ignores Sam’s protest when he orders Mrs. Luckhurst clear - choosing to wrap his hand around Tyler’s shaft instead - maintaining soul dominance. The extra effort required to stay upright, to fuck like this, is the only thing that’s kept Gene from coming. He strips Sam’s cock with the same punishing rhythm that Gene uses on himself. "Come on, come on…" Gene mouths. Tyler clenches against him, impossibly tight.
Gene feels his own orgasm in sounds of colour and light, in vibrant shades, it feels like a heart attack, like the first rush of on-coming speed. Barely coherent, Gene flicks his wrist around Sam’s cock, thumb pressing hard against the weeping crown, and inserts his nail into the slit. Sam howls, slamming down, his entire body cracking open like a lava bed. His muscles seize, so intense it almost renders Hunt unconscious.
Gene can no longer move, he wants to thrust but he’s forgotten how to withdraw. He honestly can’t see for a moment, staring blind, his cock encased in rippling bliss, penetrating Sam in every sense. His own body locks as his orgasm crests, balls emptying, time suspended until he can’t draw a single breath. Gene crashes down, pinning Tyler beneath him. Sam quakes, coming relentlessly, body still struggling as he messes the sheets and his own stomach.
Mrs. Luckhurst is the first thing Gene Hunt becomes aware of, her fingers stroke through his hair, brushing the fringe from his eyes. His muscles feel like jelly, every minor complaint and ache in his body exorcised. He’s still buried balls-deep inside of Tyler, his skin over-sensitive. Strangely, pulling out feels more ridiculous than going in, emotion that he’s managed to hold at bay swarms to the forefront of his thoughts. It’s possible he just demolished something he doesn’t know how to handle. He fucked his D.I, never once had the courage to look him in the eye - and if Tyler utters a single word - then Gene’s career, his aspirations, his marriage, will be rubble.
He had it wrong before, he thinks with exhausted certainty, this is what fear really tastes like.
Sam hisses when he pulls out. Tyler breathes deeply for a moment, gathering himself, then turns onto his side. His mouth is slack, soft at the edges, he looks more fuckable now than before. Mrs. Luckhurst leans down and kisses him, nibbling his lower lip gently. Sam responds, languid, his eyes half veiled.
Gene doesn’t recognise his own voice. "Where’s the key?"
"Top draw," Mrs. Luckhurst responds, "although I’d like to keep the cuffs on longer…if you don’t mind. I could teach you some things." She smiles without recrimination, as if she already knows what the answer will be.
Gene thinks about the equipment in the room; he thinks about fucking Sam’s mouth, he thinks about clamps and paraphernalia that he’s never once needed before, and finally, he thinks about how Tony Blair’s ménage la trio will vanish for good after they exit this room. He lets his fingers trail through the mess on Tyler’s stomach and says roughly, "Give me the key, already."
He can feel Sam’s stare, burning into him, assessing. They could punch it out, or sweep it under the carpet. Sam could screw him over with the brass seven ways to Sunday, or, as a worse-case scenario, try to blackmail him. Every time they differ on a case, Gene will be walking the electric-wire in a thunderstorm, waiting for Tyler to shove him in the back with a verbal joust. He needs to sort this out but Gene doesn’t know how.
"You know, you have more in common with Jackie Queen than I thought. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re flailing about in a girly panic." Sam’s voice is unexpected, lined with subversive humour.
It’s the one response Gene hadn’t counted on. His head jerks up sharply, "I’m not a queen, and I’m not the one who had a cock up his arse."
"Right, you’re a perfect one on the Kinsey scale."
"Kinsey-whatsey?" Gene frowns as Mrs. Luckhurst unlocks the handcuffs. Sam rubs at his wrist before sitting upright gingerly, he favours one side, Gene notices, nor can he quite hide his wince.
Sam says sotto voce, "That felt pretty real."
"I’m just going to clean up," Mrs. Luckhurst demurs. She slips a gown on, one of those Japanese affairs, and closes the door behind her.
Gene raises an eyebrow at Sam’s remark. "If that’s how you sweet-talk all the birds after getting your jollies off, then no wonder you’re still alone in that charming little bed-sit."
"And I suppose a declaration of undying love is more your style?"
Gene opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, picking his way through a verbal mine-field of admissions - and the bugger of the thing is - Tyler is right.
Three little words spoken in the heat of passion, and Gene Hunt was married faster than RDG Willis' speed-ball. He frowns, off-balance. Tyler watches him, the humour barely veiled, and Gene has the uncomfortable sensation that he’s revealed too much, that Sam’s reading him as easily as yesterday’s newspaper. It’s painfully awkward to acknowledge. "We’re not… we’re not going to mention this again. Ever." It’s a question wrapped up in an order, with a side-dish of uncertainty. Hunt’s never dithered in his life, always a man with a straight course of action, but he needs Sam on his side for this to work.
Tyler quirks an eyebrow, then pushes off from the bed, pulling on his underwear and jeans carefully. The denim’s faded, barely staying on, they cling to Tyler’s hips on a whim and a prayer. His voice is methodical, pulling in the jigsaw pieces of scattered information, "So Roger organises the parties and Carol Twilling feels marginalised, or inadequate, because of them. It still leaves us with three possible motives."
Beneath the immediate sense of relief, there’s a flicker of disappointment, that Sam won’t fight. That it really can be swept under the carpet. "Right," Gene says slowly. "Roger topped her in a moment of kinky passion."
"He’s a submissive. Physically, the only one who would be in a position of sexual vulnerability would be Roger Twilling."
Gene continues as if Tyler hadn’t interrupted, sorting his clothing out briskly. "What if she tried to blackmail him?"
"Possible. Mrs. Luckhurst said he fell in love. It would be easier if we knew if Sandra Trottman returned those feelings or not, which leaves…"
Third party, Gene thinks, remembering the spark of possessiveness when he had to share Sam with Mrs. Luckhurst. Screw whoever you want but don’t be emotional about it - like communism - it’s grand in theory and a bloody muddle in reality, people aren’t that simple, greed and self priority step in the way, that first noble rule becomes a mockery in the long run because human beings aren’t unattached, they’re emotional, messy, and their desires are all over the place.
He’s staring at Sam, at the marks he left on Tyler’s body, footprints on an unblemished beach - I was here, I walked this trail - before the evidence can be washed away. Sam pulls his shirt on, eyes glinting dark, and returns Gene’s stare without flinching.
"Stay down!" The words are muted through closed doors, aggressive, and unmistakably Annie.
Tyler’s head snaps around, already moving. Gene turns on his heel, chasing the voices until he identifies a room three doors down from theirs. W.D.C Cartwright, unlike when she decided to jump over a bridge, has managed to keep her bra on this time. Roger Twilling is trussed up like a Christmas turkey, his skin stripped red from a flogger that Cartwright wields with alarming competency. Annie’s eyes pop open as they burst in, embarrassed surprise colouring her features. Twilling looks dazed, craning his neck around to see behind. "I had him calling out names, guv," Annie blurts out, her excuse framed readily.
Gene bites down on his remark, and tugs the ropes loose from Twilling’s wrists, hauling him upright. He doesn’t doubt Annie. Enthusiasm, Gene knows, can carry a person through almost anything, but explaining to Superintendent Rathbone how their key suspect became the victim of a sexual flogging is not something Gene will ever cherish. Pulling Roger in quick seems prudent.
"Nice act, little girl, you really had me going." Twilling stands unsteadily, his shorts tented with the outline of his arousal. He smiles at Cartwright, canting his hip suggestively.
Sam sinks his fist into Roger’s stomach. Twilling buckles, doubling over and Gene has to tighten his grip just to keep him upright. "Now that," Hunt announces, "is the future of policing."
***********
It hurts. He can’t find a comfortable place to rest, skidding down until his bum sits on the edge of the seat. He looks more like an insolent fifteen year old than a respectable copper, every time Sam breathes in he feels a phantom ache, emptiness inside.
Saving Denise Williams and arresting Carol Twilling was the start of his on-going migraine. Caught red-handed, Carol didn’t so much confess as turn into a Linda Blair, spewing forth a list of grievances and pet hates that were longer than a Stephen King novel. By the time Annie locked her in the cell, Carol was threatening to spill the sordid details to the newspapers, which is why the three of them are now sitting in front of Superintendent Rathbone’s desk at 4:45 in the afternoon. He’s been yelling non-stop for over ten minutes and Gene Hunt’s influence seems to be catching, because honestly, Sam only wants a stiff drink.
He shifts again, feeling a flare of pain dart up his spine like an arrowhead. The guv’s eyes settle on him briefly, then move away. Sam doesn’t know why he submitted (and that word in itself makes his fingers clench, makes his stomach twist in a gordian knot - submission - when Sam‘s never bent his neck to anyone) except that the voices inside his head have been silent for over a week now.
He’s scared. He wasn’t expecting the entreaties and encouragement to dry up, to be beached in a permanent delusion, to be so alone. If they’re talking to him, Sam can convince himself he’ll be okay, to hold firm; the low mutter of a nurse or his mother reading from a newspaper is all Sam needs to ground himself. One week of total absence, of growing deprivation, and he was clawing for a connection. Any connection.
There’s no one left - except the people and faces of 1973.
It hurts. Rough trade. Bruises on his neck, skin rubbed raw in all the right places, a man to his left who showed Sam he was still alive, that he feels. If he’s going to be stuck in a hallucination then there ought to be some measure of comfort. Sam’s never given over control, never free-fallen like that, lost in disparate sensation, floating between worlds. He feels like the satyr who defied the gods, skin flayed in punishment and peeled to a deeper layer. He’s never come so hard in his life.
2006 has faded from his grasp; but Gene Hunt made him sweat, bleed, and curse, made him come, and that’s as visceral, as real, as Sam can possibly get. He won’t regret it. He won’t let Annie or his D.C.I take a fall because of it.
"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?!" Rathbone’s face is gaunt in the fading light, his bones angular.
At times like this, Sam doesn’t know how Hunt ever achieved the rank of D.C.I. - the only senior police officer he showed any respect to was Harry Wolfe - and his tone now is this side of insubordinate. "Joint marriage between surveillance and undercover techniques, sir, it‘s the latest thing from Hyde."
"And that justifies you tying down a revered businessman from the Chorlton district and spanking him?!!!"
"Steady on, sir, ‘revered’ is carrying things a little too far."
"Hunt, you’re like a three year old bully. You’d push a suspect right over the edge of Dover cliff and claim it was all in decent fun. You don’t know what ‘pushing’ is."
"What, exactly, is Carol Twilling alluding to, sir?" Sam interrupts. If Rathbone turns any redder he’ll stroke himself out, and while Sam doesn’t think Annie or the guv will be heartbroken about his subsequent death, they will be when they see the amount of paperwork involved.
"Sex parties," Rathbone bites out.
"With all due respect, our inquiries concerned the murder and subsequent kidnapping of two Beauvoir ladies, that Roger Twilling hosted sex parties was already known."
"Yet you saw fit to go in as undercover operatives!"
"D.C.I Hunt and myself conducted an interview with one Mrs. Luckhurst, the proceeds of which led to a greater understanding of the personal alliances and rules involved in these parties. W.D.C Cartwright interviewed Roger Twilling, and conducted herself in full accordance with her oaths as a member of the constabulatory. At no stage was Carol Twilling involved in either of these interviews." Sam tilts his head, "She was assigned to Pete Cronin’s room on the night in question. Whatever she thought may have occurred remains exactly that, speculation, with no corroboration from any third party."
"Don’t play smart with me, lad, what if I was to question Mrs. Luckhurst or Roger Twilling?"
"We caught a killer today," Gene says flatly, "and saved a woman’s life."
"I think, sir, given the nature of the activities, that both Mrs. Luckhurst and Mr. Twilling will be keen to distance themselves from the case, along with anyone else who attended," Annie’s voice is shaky, but she doesn’t back down from Rathbone’s stare. "Maybe Carol Twilling is trying to discredit the arresting police officers."
"It wouldn’t be the first time," Gene says mock-thoughtfully.
"Nor would it be the first time I’ve heard that particular excuse," Rathbone spits. His eyes rove over the three of them, "Get out of my sight, and if any one of you has the misfortune of causing another stir, then you’ll be sure to see the end of my boot, right before I kick you off the force."
Gene stands, "Thanks for the congratulations sir, you know, for ridding the streets of another murderer, your continued support makes this job all the more rewarding."
"Out."
Hunt’s halfway out the door when he mutters sub-audibly, "Prick. I'll get Cartwright to tickle his arse with a feather."
If Sam thought Rathbone was red before, then he clearly mistook the colour spectrum. Annie goes white as a sheet when the Superintendent roars, "What did he say!!!???"
"Particularly nasty weather." Sam blurts out. "It’s what he said, I mean, because you asked, and it is, don‘t you think?" Gene turns on his heel, quirking an eyebrow, dangerous humour lurking behind his eyes.
"It’s twenty-five degrees out!" Rathbone snaps.
He’s dying here, Sam opens his mouth, floundering…
Annie's voice cuts in, all sugary sweet and pure panic, "I know, isn’t it so, not a raindrop in sight, sir, and here’s me with my brolly just loving a good hint of rain. The sun does such terrible things to your skin"
Rathbone quivers, lip drawn back, eyes flashing between the three of them, trying to ferret out the truth. Annie squeezes Sam's arm, her eyes impossibly wide, then darts out the door. Sam waits another fraction of a second before he follows the guv. Hunt looks like he’s trying hard not to laugh, murmuring aside, "Is that your idea of poetry, Tyler? Particularly nasty weather equals I‘ll tickle your arse with a feather?"
"You’re a fucking twat." He’ll never make it past D.C.I, Sam thinks. Gene loves the fight too much, he‘ll sabotage himself before he’ll ever sit behind a desk. Sam joined the force with a career plan, he was going to be Superintendent before his fortieth birthday, and now he’s 2IC to a lunatic in 1973.
"It’s the Gene Genie magic," Hunt boasts happily, "everyone leaps to my defence."
Disgruntled, Sam says, "David Bowie’s song was about Jean Genet, the Gene Genie, lying flat on his back… you named yourself after a homosexual prostitute."
Hunt almost trips down the stairs. Annie bites her lip. Sam can smell her perfume, feel her stifled laughter as she leans against him, "You timed that on purpose," she whispers into his ear. There's nothing ordinary about her, from the very start Annie was a surprise, confidante and friend, all the pieces in between. She'd done it, broken rules and placed a transmitter within Roger's car, cracked the case wide open, and Sam can see the mettle in her spine, the way she holds herself that much taller. Vindicated. Sam knew from the first that she was someone to be reckoned with - a sweet smile that detracts from the whip in her hand - multifaceted and bright as a diamond. The guv recovers himself, his stare accusing as they part ways and fall into step with him. It was Annie's win today, and Sam knows Hunt will make that common knowledge, that he'll broadcast it brusquely to every man in C.I.D. when the opportunity is right.
The guv's eyes are narrowed, squinting like a gunslinger as he threatens Sam, "Don‘t you dare utter that to anyone else."
"More secret layers than an onion, guv." Some things, after all, ought to remain private.
Gene looks at him searchingly, then nods. "Pub?"
"God, yes."
FINI.
Dialogue from 2:04, as written by Ashley Pharoah.
GH: Evening all. I see you started without us. RT:Who the hell are you?
GH: Didn't you tell 'em we were coming?
ST: I thought you... chickened out. Roger, this is my friend... Gordon... Brown. And his... wife.
SUKI: Suki.
RT: Woah, woah, woah, woah. This is an invite-only party.
GH: He invited me.
ST: I- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Roger. I... Gordon's a good friend, I got over-excited, I must have let it slip.
GH: I love a party, I'm very discreet.
RT: This is my house, Tony. I decide who gets invited.
ST: I understand that. I- I... I'm sorry. We should go.
AC: If you go, you go without me. I'm enjoying myself.
ML: I think Mr Brown should be allowed to stay.
GH: Thank you, er... Mrs...
ML: Mrs Luckhurst.
RT: You four stay here. We'll discuss this in the kitchen.
ST: What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?
GH: Your stupid bloody radio stopped working so I had to find out what was happening in here.
ST: Who's *she*?
GH: Suki. I let her off an arrest last week for lewd behaviour. She owed me.
ST: She's a prostitute.
SUKI: I am here, you know.
GH: Well, you didn't think I was gonna fetch my own wife here, did you?
ST: Okay. This is getting out of hand. You were right. We should just pull him in.
AC: No! He's gonna give himself away, I just know he is!
GH: Good girl, Cartwright, at least somebody's got some balls.
RT: Mr Brown. Your keys.
GH: Now that's the future of policing