Ficathon 2009: Ethereal, brown cortina, dakfinv
Title: Ethereal
Author: dak
Word Count: 4249
Rating: brown cortina
Warnings: angst, sort of non-con (Not trying to be blase about it, but it's hard to explain why it's "sort of" without spoiling the fic. If this is something that squicks you, I'd recommend not reading this, just to be on the safe side.)
Summary: Sam can never tell what's real and what's not, but dear God, he hopes this isn't real.
A/N: For amproof who requested "Sam/Gene pre-slash, Sam-whumping (pref. non-con of some type, maybe drugged); Gene to the rescue. Again." How could I resist a prompt like that? I hope you like it!
The line between the real and unreal, Sam decided, had ceased to exist the moment he’d opened his eyes and found himself wearing polyester and Cuban heels. He couldn’t call this place a fantasy because it wasn’t, not even a dark fantasy. If this were a fantasy, a dream, he would have no qualms over appearing crazy. Yes, if he truly believed this place was a dream, he would have no trouble running up and down the streets in nothing but his pants declaring he was from the future.
So, no, this wasn’t a fantasy since, though he was loathe to admit it, he cared what people here thought of him. He did. It was why he made an effort at work. It was why he never told anyone, not even Annie, about the girl from the telly haunting him and why his blood had froze when Tony Crane had sat there, handcuffed and smiling, in the center of CID and declared Sam’s great big secret for all to hear.
He couldn’t help it. As much as logic kept telling him what he was experiencing was impossible, there was still that tiny part of him that had spent too much time analyzing Shakespeare in school which kept whispering, “There are more things in Heaven and Earth,” and Sam knew that he shouldn’t listen to that niggling voice because he wasn’t Horatio. Horatio was the sane one.
So, Sam had given up trying to define this place because all he could think of were definitions for what it wasn’t and when the possibilities were infinite, it didn’t matter how many he eliminated.
He decided to live his life day by day, as normal as possible, and maybe one day he would simply wake up and he’d be home. So, Sam worked, and Sam drank, and Sam told no one about the phones that shouldn’t be ringing, or the girl he shouldn’t be seeing, or the voices he shouldn’t be hearing.
And when he heard that one voice again and his blood froze, he kept his concerns to himself because he couldn’t have anyone here believe he was crazy because this wasn’t a fantasy, and if it wasn’t a fantasy, not even a dark one, then at least it couldn’t be a nightmare.
*
“Babette keep you up last night, Tyler?”
“Who’s Babette?” Sam sighed, stifling a yawn as he dragged pen across paper.
“Prozzie you took home last night,” Gene explained.
“What makes you think I saw a prostitute last night? And why would her name be Babette?”
“One, cos you look like you were up half the night and the only decent excuses are drinking and shagging, and you weren’t at the pub. Two, figured you’d go for a fancy, French slag.”
“I wasn’t at the pub, so I must have been with a prostitute. No wonder you made DCI,” Sam made the effort to roll his eyes. As Gene, refusing to let the issue drop, perched himself on the edge of Sam’s desk, arms defiantly crossed, Sam closed the file and he’d been working on and rose from his desk chair.
“Don’t mock my detective skills, Sammy-boy. The Gene Genie sees all and knows all.”
“Then he’ll know I’m heading to the Collator’s Den and that he’ll be subjected to a complete recount of the Constabulary’s search and seizure procedures, code by code, if he tries to follow.”
Sam didn’t bother waiting for Gene’s answer and, to his relief, Gene didn’t seem keen on following, though he could feel the Guv’s eyes boring into his back until he exited the room. Entering the lift, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold wall.
You are the smart one, aren’t you, DI Tyler? Such a smart boy.
Sam forced his eyes open. He had dropped the file. He hadn’t felt a hand on his chest. He hadn’t. He kept his eyes open the rest of the way down.
*
The pub was loud. The pub was warm. The pub was happy. Sam still felt tired and cold. Tired and cold and that was all. He sipped his whisky and buttoned his jacket. Normally, he’d sit at the bar. Tonight, he’d chosen the booth in the corner. Gene and Ray were playing darts. Annie and Phyllis were playing cards. Chris was passed out. Nelson kept eyeing him strangely. Sam made the effort to smile. He sipped from his glass.
The pub was warm. The pub was happy. Sam felt the chill that always proceeded the voice. He downed his whisky and ducked out of the pub before anyone could notice. It wasn’t hard. The pub was happy.
*
The punch hit him square in the jaw. Sam staggered backwards but before he could reposition his arms and defend himself, Gene did it for him. The crim fell to the ground as the Guv kneed him in the stomach.
Sam stood unmoving and awkward as Gene restrained their suspect. He felt the pain in his jaw but couldn’t feel it at the same time. He watched the fight with bleary eyes, arms loose at his sides. Did Gene’s fists always fly so fast or was this a special occasion, he thought.
I wish you could open your eyes, DI Tyler. This would be much more fun if you could see.
Sam shuddered as the touch went through him. When he reopened his eyes, there was blood on his shirt. He lifted a lethargic hand and felt blood on his lip. Someone shoved a handkerchief into his face. It was already speckled with dirt and dried spit. Sam took it anyway. He looked up. Gene was staring at him. Sam looked behind him. The half-conscious crim was cuffed and cowering.
“Cheers,” he mumbled and began dabbing his cut lip.
“You’re a skinny bloke, Tyler, but you’ve always held your own in a fight.”
Sam said nothing. That was Gene Hunt-speak for “what the bloody hell is wrong with you” and Sam wasn’t entirely sure his answer.
“Guess he got the jump on me,” he eventually replied.
“Clear as day, that,” Gene snorted, but the look in his eyes belied the sneer in his voice. What he was really saying was, “Of course he did, Gladys. What I want to know is how or, better yet, why?”
Sam slipped the dirty, spit-covered, and now bloodstained handkerchief into his pocket as he tongued his newly split lip.
“Let’s get him back to the station,” he replied, not meeting Gene’s gaze, and began to walk away. A firm hand grabbed his weak elbow and held him back.
“Sam, we are at the station.”
He lifted his head and stared at the cluttered walls of Lost and Found. He blinked.
“I know.” He shrugged his arm free of Gene’s hold. “I meant cells.”
He heard a low chuckle. It didn’t come from Lost and Found. Sam’s breath caught in his chest. He excused himself as the touch crawled up his inner thigh. He made it to the toilets just in time to vomit.
*
Going out was not an option, not when he couldn’t stop the sensations. He’d managed to call in sick. Said it was the flu. The flu was going around, wasn’t it? He knew it wasn’t the flu, though. Of course it wasn’t the flu. The flu didn’t give you an erection. He hadn’t wanted to do that - the erection - but his body wasn’t his anymore. Not today.
Today his body belonged to the unyielding assault of the phantom. To the feelings that normally dissipated after a few seconds, yet kept him awake all night. To the voice in his head that usually jeered and teased but tonight only panted and grunted.
It wasn’t the flu, but Sam could only lie there fatigued as he felt fingers run up his thighs and prod his anus. He could only lie there as he felt a wet tongue probing his mouth as the fingers stretched and scissored and scraped inside him. The fingers that weren’t there but were.
He kept his eyes open because there was nothing to see, and if he closed them all he would see was that face, above him. A hand had wrapped itself around his penis and began to stroke and Sam had instinctively tried to brush it away, but how could he remove something that wasn’t there?
The voice didn’t speak again until Sam felt something slip deep inside him.
Oh yes.
Sam’s hips canted at the cold touch and his arms fought with air to push the feeling away. But he couldn’t fight the phantom. He never could.
Yes. Think you could screw me over, DI Tyler? Think you could lock me up as the nutter? Think you could take Eve from me? Oh no, DI Tyler. I don’t think so. Screw me, will you? Looks like the other way round. Too bad you’re not awake to see it.
The phantom hand stroked. The phantom cock pumped. Sam scraped his fingernails over his body, trying to rip the feelings away. It didn’t work. His body shook and strained until he felt a harsh sting inside him. Another phantom tug. He came on himself and then the touches were gone. Finally gone.
He sat up, searching his body for the telltale signs - the bruises, the bitemarks, the blood he’d felt dripping out of him.
The only marks were his own. There was no evidence. There was no proof. What was the opposite of a victim-less crime? A crime where there was only a victim but no perpetrator?
Sam collapsed forward. He landed in his own come. He didn’t make it to the toilet in time.
*
Society dictated that when there was a knock on the door, one was supposed to answer. Someone knocked on Sam’s door. He remained in his armchair, the cuppa he’d made for himself already cold in his hands. Someone knocked on his door. All he wanted was to lie down and go to sleep, but he wouldn’t. Not in that bed, even though he’d already put the sheets and duvet in bin bags.
Someone broke down his door. He hadn’t cleaned up the vomit, yet. A white loafer stepped in it as it entered the flat. Sam saw it because his eyes were glued to the floor. He saw the loafer lift as its owner checked the now stained sole, then lower as the broken-in door was pushed shut.
“I’m sick. I have the flu. You shouldn’t be here. I might be contagious,” he said, but the words sounded hollow. Robotic. Gene wouldn’t believe him.
“You’re shaking,” was the quiet response.
Sam looked into his mug and saw the cold, black tea quivering back and forth. He set the cup on the ratty carpet.
“I haven’t been able to sleep.”
“Since when?” Was the reply.
Sam decided not to answer that.
“I’ll get you a towel,” he said instead. He pushed himself out of the chair. It only took him one step to remember his legs were made of rubber. His knees buckled beneath him, but he clasped the chair for support and slowly forced himself into a standing position.
“I’ll get you a towel,” he repeated, quieter than before.
“Sam.”
Gene’s voice was hardly ever completely serious. Sam stopped.
“Are you on something?”
He’d been asked the question many times since arriving here, but it was usually with a laugh or a sneer or some other disclaimer which forbid sincerity. Not this time. This time, the room was quiet as a serious Gene awaited a serious answer to his serious question.
“No,” he said seriously, though it sounded more like a whine. Embarrassed, he kept his eyes to the floor. “But maybe I should be,” he muttered with a laugh. “This carpet is absolutely disgusting. I should have it replaced,” he blurted out, hoping to cover tracks he wasn’t sure he’d left.
“Sam.”
“It’s the flu.”
“It’s not the ruddy flu.”
“Fine. It’s not the flu. Now, I’m getting you a towel before you track sick all over my flat.”
Without another hesitation, Sam loped into the tiny bathroom and pulled a fraying, gray towel off the rack.
Felt good, didn’t it, Tyler?
Sam dropped the towel then hurriedly retrieved it. He quickened his pace as he left the bathroom, and shoved the towel into Gene’s hands.
“Here.”
Towel in place, Sam turned and walked away, but there was nowhere to go. He decided to head into the kitchen and began moving dishes around in a vain attempt to look like he was cleaning.
Pot. Dish. Fork. Fork. Knife.
“You’re a mess.”
Sam jumped, not realizing Gene had come up behind him, but he quickly recovered.
Knife. Spoon. Fork. Plate. Glass.
“Am I?” He deflected. His mum always said he was good at deflecting.
Bowl. Fork. Mug. Fork. Spoon. Plate.
“Why?”
Why don’t I come round more often?
Broken plate.
“Hm. Watch the shards. So, is it a case? Never can switch off.”
Sam dried his hands on his trousers and decided the kitchen wasn’t the place for him. He didn’t look at Gene, but felt his presence as he moved past him into the main room.
“My cases are fine,” he mumbled as he stood near the bed, again lost as to where to go.
“Then why can’t you sleep, Sam?”
Would you like if I visit more often, DI Tyler? After all, no one else does.
“It’s none of your business!” He snapped, eyes squeezed shut. If he pressed his eyelids together hard enough, maybe he could make them disappear. Maybe he could make them all disappear. Maybe today he would simply wake up and he’d be home.
You like it when I come, don’t you, Sam?
“Look, Tyler, I came here cos...”
A frigid hand pressed against his abdomen. Gene wasn’t anywhere near. Sam leapt back, frantically brushing his hands down his stomach.
And no one will ever know, will they?
The hand sunk lower. Sam leapt back again. He may have screamed. He wasn’t sure. The hand clamped around him and began to stroke.
You’ll never tell, DI Tyler. And they’ll never know.
Sam couldn’t breathe. The line between the real and unreal had ceased to exist and Sam found himself floating in the ether. The hand was inside him again and he was paralyzed. His blood had froze.
No, you’ll never tell. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you were crazy, would you?
He kept his concerns to himself because he couldn’t have anyone here believe he was crazy.
That anyone slapped him in the face and grabbed him by the arms.
“Sam!”
And for the first time in weeks, Sam looked Gene straight in the eye. And for the first time ever, declared his great big secret for Gene to hear.
“Tony Crane’s inside my head. I can hear him, again, in the future. He’s found me and he won’t stop touch...he won’t stop and I just want him to stop but he never does.”
He felt Gene relax his grip.
“Tony Crane.”
“Yes.”
“Is in your head.”
“Yes.”
Gene was studying him closely. Sam wasn’t sure what he would see. He wasn’t sure what was left.
“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”
“I’m not crazy!” Sam defended himself a little too eagerly.
“I didn’t say you were,” Gene spoke calmly. “Calm down, you great jessie. Breathing like you’ve run a bloody marathon.”
A hand was roughly rubbing his back, but it wasn’t a phantom hand. It may not have been a real hand, either, but at least he could see it.
“Overworked, aren’t you? Always bite off more than you can chew. Teach you to obsess over paperwork, won’t it?”
“Overworked. Yes,” Sam nodded, eager to latch onto the idea.
“Need a short holiday.”
“I don’t often go on holiday.”
“See? Take some time off. Maybe go to the beaches. And go see a doctor. Get yourself looked over.”
Sam thought of the doctors in 2006, the ones who were supposed to be watching him, caring for him, protecting him. Sam bolted from Gene’s touch.
“I don’t need a doctor, Gene!” He declared, a fresh shot of adrenaline pouring through his weakened body. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me. Don’t make this my fault. It isn’t my fault!”
Sam thought of all the rape cases he’d worked, of all the girls he’d seen whose parents, boyfriends, husbands blamed them for what had happened to them. But it wasn’t their fault. They were the victims. It was never their fault and he wouldn’t let Gene blame him for this.
“Rape?” Gene spoke the word and the world stopped. The clock froze. Dust hung in the air. Sam stopped shaking. Breath hung in his chest. Gene’s eyes stared at him, confusion over concern.
Mrs. Ellixson’s door next door slammed shut and restarted time. The clock began to tick. The dust began to shift. Sam began to shake. Breath left his chest. Gene’s eyes stared at him, confusion over concern.
“What did you say?” Sam asked, voice tinny.
“You were babbling just then. Only word I caught.”
Sam said nothing. Gene’s eyes hardened.
“You done something you’re feeling guilty for? Is that it?”
Sam’s brain couldn’t keep up with the conversation, but as Gene approached, he cowered.
“And what’s it got to do with Crane, hm?” Gene continued.
Sam often forgot how intimidating Gene could be. A towering monster in camelhair, looming over him, ready to strike.
“I saw you making eyes at his bird. Thought you’d get him locked up and she’d see you as the hero, eh Sammy-boy?”
“I...no...” he managed to stammer.
“But she didn’t, did she? Still turned you down. What? Couldn’t handle it, Tyler? Couldn’t keep your todger in check, could you?”
“Gene...no...” He was back against the wall now and Gene was still closing in.
“So you had your way with her, anyway, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” Gene pinned him by the shoulders. Sam could do nothing but take it. It was all he was good at nowadays.
“And now you can’t face what you did. Eating you up inside, isn’t it? Good,” Gene spat the word in his face. “It should be. It...”
Sam waited for the next accusation, the next insult. He was too tired to do anything else. So, he waited. And waited. It never came. Sam opened his eyes. Gene was staring at him, at his stomach. He’d slipped on only his vest and his jogging trousers after removing the bedsheets. Now the vest had risen up, clinging to his abdomen and revealing the skin below.
“Bruises all over you belly,” Gene said. “Got you good, didn’t she? Where else did she hit you, hm? How much more evidence did she leave?” Gene’s voice was rising again, filled with utter disgust. Sam couldn’t blame him. He felt disgusting. Gene roughly spun him round, pressing his face against the wall and pinning his arm to his back.
With his free hand, Gene further exposed Sam’s back, wrenching the vest up, then yanking down his trousers just below the waist. Completely numb now, Sam couldn’t bring himself to care. After all, the whole situation might not even be real, he thought. He barely noticed that Gene had let go once he’d lowered the trousers. Sam kept himself against the wall.
“Jesus...” was the shocked whisper he heard uttered.
“If you’re going to kill me, get on with it,” Sam sighed. Death would be better than this, he decided.
“Sam...there’s dried blood down...” Gene paused before continuing. “All down your legs,” he finished quietly.
Sam felt mildly shocked. He never thought the phantom left marks.
“Guess it’s real, then,” he told the wall. “Or not. I don’t know.”
Gene was quiet behind him. Sam raised his trousers with a wince and slowly turned round. He kept his eyes on the carpet, but he knew Gene was watching.
“You never touched her did you?” He asked.
“No.”
“Or any other girl.”
“No.”
“Shit. Someone Shit. I...Tell me what happened, Sam,” Gene said, all malice gone from his voice.
If this place were a fantasy he would have no calms over appearing crazy.
“Tell me who did this so I can find them...”
And in a place where phantom hands left real marks, how could this not be a fantasy?
“Tony Crane visits me in hospital, again. I don’t know how. But no one sees him and he’s there, alone with me, and he...” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“When were you in hospital?”
“Now. In the future.”
“No, Sam.”
“Tony Crane rapes me in the future,” Sam laughed bitterly.
“Sam, don’t. You’re not a nutter. You’re...”
“I’m from the future and Tony Crane is there and...”
“Just tell me what really happened, Sam. You don’t need to make up a story. It ain’t your fault. Who did this?”
“Tony Crane.”
“Sam.”
“Crane.”
“Tell me who did this to you!”
“Crane did this!” Sam screamed and finally he felt again, though he wished he didn’t. “He sneaks into my room and he talks to me and touches me and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. There’s no one there to help me! There’s no one there. No one cares and I...I can’t...”
The adrenaline wore off and Sam collapsed to the floor, the carpet scratching his knees. Tears ran down his face, but he wasn’t crying. There were no sobs. The tears just came of their own accord. A rough hand brushed them away.
“Okay, Sam. Okay,” Gene said calmly. “I can stop him.”
Sam looked up. He couldn’t tell if Gene was real or not.
“You will?”
Maybe he wasn’t stuck in two worlds. Maybe he was in one place which meant everyone else he knew, everything else he experienced, was all in one place. Maybe Gene could protect him in his hospital room.
“I will. But I’ll need you to do something for me, Sammy. I’ll need your help.”
“What do you need me to do?”
Gene placed his warm hands on Sam’s shoulders.
“I need you to see a friend of mine.”
“A friend?”
“A good friend. Lives out in the country. I can take you there even.”
“Will it make him stop? I want him to stop, Gene.”
“I hope so, Sam,” Gene gently squeezed his shoulders. “Jesus, I hope so.”
*
The sky was blue. The breeze was cool but gentle. Sam’s leather jacket crinkled as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. As the Cortina drove up, it kicked a stream of dust into the air. Gene parked so that the passenger side door stopped directly in front of him. Though he appeared to have no intention of getting out, Gene switched off the engine nonetheless.
Sam felt the metal in his hand as he grasped the doorknob. He heard the click as he pulled the door open. He heard a smooth swish as he slid across the seat. The door clacked as he pulled it shut.
“Well?” Gene asked, and Sam could hear the hopeful uncertainty in his voice.
“As far as nervous breakdowns go, I was the most interesting case he’s ever seen.” Sam rested his hands on his thighs and rubbed them up and down, soothing his nerves.
“And...you’re cured?”
“I’m eating properly, sleeping seven to eight hours a night, and learning how to switch off,” he nodded. “I’m also not allowed to work double shifts, take case files home, or go in on weekends. And he wants to see me at least once a month for the next few months.”
“And...no more voices, or...”
“No,” Sam lied. “No. That all stopped once he got me sleeping.”
“Good. Doc Mathers is a good bloke, for a quack. If he could sort out men from the service, knew he could fix you.”
“And did you ever need to visit him personally?”
“Course not. Can hold me own, me.”
“Course you can,” Sam smiled and melted into the comfortable car seat. The relaxation only lasted a moment, though. “And everyone at the station, they think...”
“They think you’ve been caring for your sick auntie in France for the past two months.”
“Is she better, then?”
“’Fraid she didn’t make it.”
“Well that’s pleasant.”
“Figured it could explain why you might still have a glum look about your person. And why you won’t want to answer any questions ‘bout her horrible condition.”
“How clever of you.”
“I thought so.”
Gene started the engine but hesitated putting the car in gear. “Sam. You really...okay?”
Sam took a deep breath and felt the warm hand on his shoulder.
“Yes. Not great, but okay. And improving.”
Both Gene’s hands were on the wheel.
“Good. Then let’s get you home.”
Sam closed his eyes as Gene began to drive.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Gene huffed. “Can’t have a nutter on me team.”
Sam felt a hand entwine with his own. The line between the real and the unreal, he decided, had ceased to exist. He couldn’t call this place a fantasy because it wasn’t. So, Sam had decided to call it home because that was one possibility he’d never been able to eliminate.
I got him, Sammy. He was there, just like you said. No way he’ll be bothering you anymore. Now all we need is for you to wake up, dozy git.
Wake up, Sam.
Author: dak
Word Count: 4249
Rating: brown cortina
Warnings: angst, sort of non-con (Not trying to be blase about it, but it's hard to explain why it's "sort of" without spoiling the fic. If this is something that squicks you, I'd recommend not reading this, just to be on the safe side.)
Summary: Sam can never tell what's real and what's not, but dear God, he hopes this isn't real.
A/N: For amproof who requested "Sam/Gene pre-slash, Sam-whumping (pref. non-con of some type, maybe drugged); Gene to the rescue. Again." How could I resist a prompt like that? I hope you like it!
The line between the real and unreal, Sam decided, had ceased to exist the moment he’d opened his eyes and found himself wearing polyester and Cuban heels. He couldn’t call this place a fantasy because it wasn’t, not even a dark fantasy. If this were a fantasy, a dream, he would have no qualms over appearing crazy. Yes, if he truly believed this place was a dream, he would have no trouble running up and down the streets in nothing but his pants declaring he was from the future.
So, no, this wasn’t a fantasy since, though he was loathe to admit it, he cared what people here thought of him. He did. It was why he made an effort at work. It was why he never told anyone, not even Annie, about the girl from the telly haunting him and why his blood had froze when Tony Crane had sat there, handcuffed and smiling, in the center of CID and declared Sam’s great big secret for all to hear.
He couldn’t help it. As much as logic kept telling him what he was experiencing was impossible, there was still that tiny part of him that had spent too much time analyzing Shakespeare in school which kept whispering, “There are more things in Heaven and Earth,” and Sam knew that he shouldn’t listen to that niggling voice because he wasn’t Horatio. Horatio was the sane one.
So, Sam had given up trying to define this place because all he could think of were definitions for what it wasn’t and when the possibilities were infinite, it didn’t matter how many he eliminated.
He decided to live his life day by day, as normal as possible, and maybe one day he would simply wake up and he’d be home. So, Sam worked, and Sam drank, and Sam told no one about the phones that shouldn’t be ringing, or the girl he shouldn’t be seeing, or the voices he shouldn’t be hearing.
And when he heard that one voice again and his blood froze, he kept his concerns to himself because he couldn’t have anyone here believe he was crazy because this wasn’t a fantasy, and if it wasn’t a fantasy, not even a dark one, then at least it couldn’t be a nightmare.
*
“Babette keep you up last night, Tyler?”
“Who’s Babette?” Sam sighed, stifling a yawn as he dragged pen across paper.
“Prozzie you took home last night,” Gene explained.
“What makes you think I saw a prostitute last night? And why would her name be Babette?”
“One, cos you look like you were up half the night and the only decent excuses are drinking and shagging, and you weren’t at the pub. Two, figured you’d go for a fancy, French slag.”
“I wasn’t at the pub, so I must have been with a prostitute. No wonder you made DCI,” Sam made the effort to roll his eyes. As Gene, refusing to let the issue drop, perched himself on the edge of Sam’s desk, arms defiantly crossed, Sam closed the file and he’d been working on and rose from his desk chair.
“Don’t mock my detective skills, Sammy-boy. The Gene Genie sees all and knows all.”
“Then he’ll know I’m heading to the Collator’s Den and that he’ll be subjected to a complete recount of the Constabulary’s search and seizure procedures, code by code, if he tries to follow.”
Sam didn’t bother waiting for Gene’s answer and, to his relief, Gene didn’t seem keen on following, though he could feel the Guv’s eyes boring into his back until he exited the room. Entering the lift, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold wall.
You are the smart one, aren’t you, DI Tyler? Such a smart boy.
Sam forced his eyes open. He had dropped the file. He hadn’t felt a hand on his chest. He hadn’t. He kept his eyes open the rest of the way down.
*
The pub was loud. The pub was warm. The pub was happy. Sam still felt tired and cold. Tired and cold and that was all. He sipped his whisky and buttoned his jacket. Normally, he’d sit at the bar. Tonight, he’d chosen the booth in the corner. Gene and Ray were playing darts. Annie and Phyllis were playing cards. Chris was passed out. Nelson kept eyeing him strangely. Sam made the effort to smile. He sipped from his glass.
The pub was warm. The pub was happy. Sam felt the chill that always proceeded the voice. He downed his whisky and ducked out of the pub before anyone could notice. It wasn’t hard. The pub was happy.
*
The punch hit him square in the jaw. Sam staggered backwards but before he could reposition his arms and defend himself, Gene did it for him. The crim fell to the ground as the Guv kneed him in the stomach.
Sam stood unmoving and awkward as Gene restrained their suspect. He felt the pain in his jaw but couldn’t feel it at the same time. He watched the fight with bleary eyes, arms loose at his sides. Did Gene’s fists always fly so fast or was this a special occasion, he thought.
I wish you could open your eyes, DI Tyler. This would be much more fun if you could see.
Sam shuddered as the touch went through him. When he reopened his eyes, there was blood on his shirt. He lifted a lethargic hand and felt blood on his lip. Someone shoved a handkerchief into his face. It was already speckled with dirt and dried spit. Sam took it anyway. He looked up. Gene was staring at him. Sam looked behind him. The half-conscious crim was cuffed and cowering.
“Cheers,” he mumbled and began dabbing his cut lip.
“You’re a skinny bloke, Tyler, but you’ve always held your own in a fight.”
Sam said nothing. That was Gene Hunt-speak for “what the bloody hell is wrong with you” and Sam wasn’t entirely sure his answer.
“Guess he got the jump on me,” he eventually replied.
“Clear as day, that,” Gene snorted, but the look in his eyes belied the sneer in his voice. What he was really saying was, “Of course he did, Gladys. What I want to know is how or, better yet, why?”
Sam slipped the dirty, spit-covered, and now bloodstained handkerchief into his pocket as he tongued his newly split lip.
“Let’s get him back to the station,” he replied, not meeting Gene’s gaze, and began to walk away. A firm hand grabbed his weak elbow and held him back.
“Sam, we are at the station.”
He lifted his head and stared at the cluttered walls of Lost and Found. He blinked.
“I know.” He shrugged his arm free of Gene’s hold. “I meant cells.”
He heard a low chuckle. It didn’t come from Lost and Found. Sam’s breath caught in his chest. He excused himself as the touch crawled up his inner thigh. He made it to the toilets just in time to vomit.
*
Going out was not an option, not when he couldn’t stop the sensations. He’d managed to call in sick. Said it was the flu. The flu was going around, wasn’t it? He knew it wasn’t the flu, though. Of course it wasn’t the flu. The flu didn’t give you an erection. He hadn’t wanted to do that - the erection - but his body wasn’t his anymore. Not today.
Today his body belonged to the unyielding assault of the phantom. To the feelings that normally dissipated after a few seconds, yet kept him awake all night. To the voice in his head that usually jeered and teased but tonight only panted and grunted.
It wasn’t the flu, but Sam could only lie there fatigued as he felt fingers run up his thighs and prod his anus. He could only lie there as he felt a wet tongue probing his mouth as the fingers stretched and scissored and scraped inside him. The fingers that weren’t there but were.
He kept his eyes open because there was nothing to see, and if he closed them all he would see was that face, above him. A hand had wrapped itself around his penis and began to stroke and Sam had instinctively tried to brush it away, but how could he remove something that wasn’t there?
The voice didn’t speak again until Sam felt something slip deep inside him.
Oh yes.
Sam’s hips canted at the cold touch and his arms fought with air to push the feeling away. But he couldn’t fight the phantom. He never could.
Yes. Think you could screw me over, DI Tyler? Think you could lock me up as the nutter? Think you could take Eve from me? Oh no, DI Tyler. I don’t think so. Screw me, will you? Looks like the other way round. Too bad you’re not awake to see it.
The phantom hand stroked. The phantom cock pumped. Sam scraped his fingernails over his body, trying to rip the feelings away. It didn’t work. His body shook and strained until he felt a harsh sting inside him. Another phantom tug. He came on himself and then the touches were gone. Finally gone.
He sat up, searching his body for the telltale signs - the bruises, the bitemarks, the blood he’d felt dripping out of him.
The only marks were his own. There was no evidence. There was no proof. What was the opposite of a victim-less crime? A crime where there was only a victim but no perpetrator?
Sam collapsed forward. He landed in his own come. He didn’t make it to the toilet in time.
*
Society dictated that when there was a knock on the door, one was supposed to answer. Someone knocked on Sam’s door. He remained in his armchair, the cuppa he’d made for himself already cold in his hands. Someone knocked on his door. All he wanted was to lie down and go to sleep, but he wouldn’t. Not in that bed, even though he’d already put the sheets and duvet in bin bags.
Someone broke down his door. He hadn’t cleaned up the vomit, yet. A white loafer stepped in it as it entered the flat. Sam saw it because his eyes were glued to the floor. He saw the loafer lift as its owner checked the now stained sole, then lower as the broken-in door was pushed shut.
“I’m sick. I have the flu. You shouldn’t be here. I might be contagious,” he said, but the words sounded hollow. Robotic. Gene wouldn’t believe him.
“You’re shaking,” was the quiet response.
Sam looked into his mug and saw the cold, black tea quivering back and forth. He set the cup on the ratty carpet.
“I haven’t been able to sleep.”
“Since when?” Was the reply.
Sam decided not to answer that.
“I’ll get you a towel,” he said instead. He pushed himself out of the chair. It only took him one step to remember his legs were made of rubber. His knees buckled beneath him, but he clasped the chair for support and slowly forced himself into a standing position.
“I’ll get you a towel,” he repeated, quieter than before.
“Sam.”
Gene’s voice was hardly ever completely serious. Sam stopped.
“Are you on something?”
He’d been asked the question many times since arriving here, but it was usually with a laugh or a sneer or some other disclaimer which forbid sincerity. Not this time. This time, the room was quiet as a serious Gene awaited a serious answer to his serious question.
“No,” he said seriously, though it sounded more like a whine. Embarrassed, he kept his eyes to the floor. “But maybe I should be,” he muttered with a laugh. “This carpet is absolutely disgusting. I should have it replaced,” he blurted out, hoping to cover tracks he wasn’t sure he’d left.
“Sam.”
“It’s the flu.”
“It’s not the ruddy flu.”
“Fine. It’s not the flu. Now, I’m getting you a towel before you track sick all over my flat.”
Without another hesitation, Sam loped into the tiny bathroom and pulled a fraying, gray towel off the rack.
Felt good, didn’t it, Tyler?
Sam dropped the towel then hurriedly retrieved it. He quickened his pace as he left the bathroom, and shoved the towel into Gene’s hands.
“Here.”
Towel in place, Sam turned and walked away, but there was nowhere to go. He decided to head into the kitchen and began moving dishes around in a vain attempt to look like he was cleaning.
Pot. Dish. Fork. Fork. Knife.
“You’re a mess.”
Sam jumped, not realizing Gene had come up behind him, but he quickly recovered.
Knife. Spoon. Fork. Plate. Glass.
“Am I?” He deflected. His mum always said he was good at deflecting.
Bowl. Fork. Mug. Fork. Spoon. Plate.
“Why?”
Why don’t I come round more often?
Broken plate.
“Hm. Watch the shards. So, is it a case? Never can switch off.”
Sam dried his hands on his trousers and decided the kitchen wasn’t the place for him. He didn’t look at Gene, but felt his presence as he moved past him into the main room.
“My cases are fine,” he mumbled as he stood near the bed, again lost as to where to go.
“Then why can’t you sleep, Sam?”
Would you like if I visit more often, DI Tyler? After all, no one else does.
“It’s none of your business!” He snapped, eyes squeezed shut. If he pressed his eyelids together hard enough, maybe he could make them disappear. Maybe he could make them all disappear. Maybe today he would simply wake up and he’d be home.
You like it when I come, don’t you, Sam?
“Look, Tyler, I came here cos...”
A frigid hand pressed against his abdomen. Gene wasn’t anywhere near. Sam leapt back, frantically brushing his hands down his stomach.
And no one will ever know, will they?
The hand sunk lower. Sam leapt back again. He may have screamed. He wasn’t sure. The hand clamped around him and began to stroke.
You’ll never tell, DI Tyler. And they’ll never know.
Sam couldn’t breathe. The line between the real and unreal had ceased to exist and Sam found himself floating in the ether. The hand was inside him again and he was paralyzed. His blood had froze.
No, you’ll never tell. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you were crazy, would you?
He kept his concerns to himself because he couldn’t have anyone here believe he was crazy.
That anyone slapped him in the face and grabbed him by the arms.
“Sam!”
And for the first time in weeks, Sam looked Gene straight in the eye. And for the first time ever, declared his great big secret for Gene to hear.
“Tony Crane’s inside my head. I can hear him, again, in the future. He’s found me and he won’t stop touch...he won’t stop and I just want him to stop but he never does.”
He felt Gene relax his grip.
“Tony Crane.”
“Yes.”
“Is in your head.”
“Yes.”
Gene was studying him closely. Sam wasn’t sure what he would see. He wasn’t sure what was left.
“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”
“I’m not crazy!” Sam defended himself a little too eagerly.
“I didn’t say you were,” Gene spoke calmly. “Calm down, you great jessie. Breathing like you’ve run a bloody marathon.”
A hand was roughly rubbing his back, but it wasn’t a phantom hand. It may not have been a real hand, either, but at least he could see it.
“Overworked, aren’t you? Always bite off more than you can chew. Teach you to obsess over paperwork, won’t it?”
“Overworked. Yes,” Sam nodded, eager to latch onto the idea.
“Need a short holiday.”
“I don’t often go on holiday.”
“See? Take some time off. Maybe go to the beaches. And go see a doctor. Get yourself looked over.”
Sam thought of the doctors in 2006, the ones who were supposed to be watching him, caring for him, protecting him. Sam bolted from Gene’s touch.
“I don’t need a doctor, Gene!” He declared, a fresh shot of adrenaline pouring through his weakened body. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me. Don’t make this my fault. It isn’t my fault!”
Sam thought of all the rape cases he’d worked, of all the girls he’d seen whose parents, boyfriends, husbands blamed them for what had happened to them. But it wasn’t their fault. They were the victims. It was never their fault and he wouldn’t let Gene blame him for this.
“Rape?” Gene spoke the word and the world stopped. The clock froze. Dust hung in the air. Sam stopped shaking. Breath hung in his chest. Gene’s eyes stared at him, confusion over concern.
Mrs. Ellixson’s door next door slammed shut and restarted time. The clock began to tick. The dust began to shift. Sam began to shake. Breath left his chest. Gene’s eyes stared at him, confusion over concern.
“What did you say?” Sam asked, voice tinny.
“You were babbling just then. Only word I caught.”
Sam said nothing. Gene’s eyes hardened.
“You done something you’re feeling guilty for? Is that it?”
Sam’s brain couldn’t keep up with the conversation, but as Gene approached, he cowered.
“And what’s it got to do with Crane, hm?” Gene continued.
Sam often forgot how intimidating Gene could be. A towering monster in camelhair, looming over him, ready to strike.
“I saw you making eyes at his bird. Thought you’d get him locked up and she’d see you as the hero, eh Sammy-boy?”
“I...no...” he managed to stammer.
“But she didn’t, did she? Still turned you down. What? Couldn’t handle it, Tyler? Couldn’t keep your todger in check, could you?”
“Gene...no...” He was back against the wall now and Gene was still closing in.
“So you had your way with her, anyway, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” Gene pinned him by the shoulders. Sam could do nothing but take it. It was all he was good at nowadays.
“And now you can’t face what you did. Eating you up inside, isn’t it? Good,” Gene spat the word in his face. “It should be. It...”
Sam waited for the next accusation, the next insult. He was too tired to do anything else. So, he waited. And waited. It never came. Sam opened his eyes. Gene was staring at him, at his stomach. He’d slipped on only his vest and his jogging trousers after removing the bedsheets. Now the vest had risen up, clinging to his abdomen and revealing the skin below.
“Bruises all over you belly,” Gene said. “Got you good, didn’t she? Where else did she hit you, hm? How much more evidence did she leave?” Gene’s voice was rising again, filled with utter disgust. Sam couldn’t blame him. He felt disgusting. Gene roughly spun him round, pressing his face against the wall and pinning his arm to his back.
With his free hand, Gene further exposed Sam’s back, wrenching the vest up, then yanking down his trousers just below the waist. Completely numb now, Sam couldn’t bring himself to care. After all, the whole situation might not even be real, he thought. He barely noticed that Gene had let go once he’d lowered the trousers. Sam kept himself against the wall.
“Jesus...” was the shocked whisper he heard uttered.
“If you’re going to kill me, get on with it,” Sam sighed. Death would be better than this, he decided.
“Sam...there’s dried blood down...” Gene paused before continuing. “All down your legs,” he finished quietly.
Sam felt mildly shocked. He never thought the phantom left marks.
“Guess it’s real, then,” he told the wall. “Or not. I don’t know.”
Gene was quiet behind him. Sam raised his trousers with a wince and slowly turned round. He kept his eyes on the carpet, but he knew Gene was watching.
“You never touched her did you?” He asked.
“No.”
“Or any other girl.”
“No.”
“Shit. Someone Shit. I...Tell me what happened, Sam,” Gene said, all malice gone from his voice.
If this place were a fantasy he would have no calms over appearing crazy.
“Tell me who did this so I can find them...”
And in a place where phantom hands left real marks, how could this not be a fantasy?
“Tony Crane visits me in hospital, again. I don’t know how. But no one sees him and he’s there, alone with me, and he...” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“When were you in hospital?”
“Now. In the future.”
“No, Sam.”
“Tony Crane rapes me in the future,” Sam laughed bitterly.
“Sam, don’t. You’re not a nutter. You’re...”
“I’m from the future and Tony Crane is there and...”
“Just tell me what really happened, Sam. You don’t need to make up a story. It ain’t your fault. Who did this?”
“Tony Crane.”
“Sam.”
“Crane.”
“Tell me who did this to you!”
“Crane did this!” Sam screamed and finally he felt again, though he wished he didn’t. “He sneaks into my room and he talks to me and touches me and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. There’s no one there to help me! There’s no one there. No one cares and I...I can’t...”
The adrenaline wore off and Sam collapsed to the floor, the carpet scratching his knees. Tears ran down his face, but he wasn’t crying. There were no sobs. The tears just came of their own accord. A rough hand brushed them away.
“Okay, Sam. Okay,” Gene said calmly. “I can stop him.”
Sam looked up. He couldn’t tell if Gene was real or not.
“You will?”
Maybe he wasn’t stuck in two worlds. Maybe he was in one place which meant everyone else he knew, everything else he experienced, was all in one place. Maybe Gene could protect him in his hospital room.
“I will. But I’ll need you to do something for me, Sammy. I’ll need your help.”
“What do you need me to do?”
Gene placed his warm hands on Sam’s shoulders.
“I need you to see a friend of mine.”
“A friend?”
“A good friend. Lives out in the country. I can take you there even.”
“Will it make him stop? I want him to stop, Gene.”
“I hope so, Sam,” Gene gently squeezed his shoulders. “Jesus, I hope so.”
*
The sky was blue. The breeze was cool but gentle. Sam’s leather jacket crinkled as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. As the Cortina drove up, it kicked a stream of dust into the air. Gene parked so that the passenger side door stopped directly in front of him. Though he appeared to have no intention of getting out, Gene switched off the engine nonetheless.
Sam felt the metal in his hand as he grasped the doorknob. He heard the click as he pulled the door open. He heard a smooth swish as he slid across the seat. The door clacked as he pulled it shut.
“Well?” Gene asked, and Sam could hear the hopeful uncertainty in his voice.
“As far as nervous breakdowns go, I was the most interesting case he’s ever seen.” Sam rested his hands on his thighs and rubbed them up and down, soothing his nerves.
“And...you’re cured?”
“I’m eating properly, sleeping seven to eight hours a night, and learning how to switch off,” he nodded. “I’m also not allowed to work double shifts, take case files home, or go in on weekends. And he wants to see me at least once a month for the next few months.”
“And...no more voices, or...”
“No,” Sam lied. “No. That all stopped once he got me sleeping.”
“Good. Doc Mathers is a good bloke, for a quack. If he could sort out men from the service, knew he could fix you.”
“And did you ever need to visit him personally?”
“Course not. Can hold me own, me.”
“Course you can,” Sam smiled and melted into the comfortable car seat. The relaxation only lasted a moment, though. “And everyone at the station, they think...”
“They think you’ve been caring for your sick auntie in France for the past two months.”
“Is she better, then?”
“’Fraid she didn’t make it.”
“Well that’s pleasant.”
“Figured it could explain why you might still have a glum look about your person. And why you won’t want to answer any questions ‘bout her horrible condition.”
“How clever of you.”
“I thought so.”
Gene started the engine but hesitated putting the car in gear. “Sam. You really...okay?”
Sam took a deep breath and felt the warm hand on his shoulder.
“Yes. Not great, but okay. And improving.”
Both Gene’s hands were on the wheel.
“Good. Then let’s get you home.”
Sam closed his eyes as Gene began to drive.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Gene huffed. “Can’t have a nutter on me team.”
Sam felt a hand entwine with his own. The line between the real and the unreal, he decided, had ceased to exist. He couldn’t call this place a fantasy because it wasn’t. So, Sam had decided to call it home because that was one possibility he’d never been able to eliminate.
I got him, Sammy. He was there, just like you said. No way he’ll be bothering you anymore. Now all we need is for you to wake up, dozy git.
Wake up, Sam.