5 Times Sam Survived the Whump..., blue cortina, gen, dakfinv
Title: 5 Times Sam Survived the Whump and 1 Time He Didn't
Author: dak
Word Count: 3826
Rating: blue cortina
Warnings: character death, angst, blood
Summary: Does what it says on the tin.
A/N: Character death warning only applies to the last ficlet. I've left space between the other five ficlets and that one, so if that squicks you, you can read the rest without fear. For jpgr who gave me the prompt.
1)
“Is he going to make it?”
“Yes.”
Two hours earlier...
Sam went down as soon as Ottinger’s fist collided with his cheek. Granted, the fist was the size of a Christmas ham and Tyler’s face was of a more delicate nature, (so the WPC’s gossiped), but Gene had expected the ponce to put up a bit more of a fight. As he finished off his own man, Ol’ Bobby Cray (bit of a misnomer, Gene thought, as Cray was younger than the Gene Genie, himself), he waited for Tyler to spring to his feet and settle the score with Ottinger, using that whole kung fu nonsense he was so fond of.
He didn’t.
As not-that-ol’ Bobby Cray was flung into a pile of crates by the very spry Gene Genie, Ottinger was aiming his army boot over Sam’s immobile head. Unable to cross the room in time to pummel the lout with his bare fists, Gene pulled his trusty revolver from his inner pocket, aimed Gary Cooper style, and fired one shot into the raised bent knee that, seconds before, had been so keen on dropping the boot onto his DI’s already cracked noggin.
Ottinger howled and clutched his knee as he fell. Gene holstered his gun and walked calmly to his deputy’s side, leaning over and gently shaking his shoulder.
“C’mon, Tyler. Fight’s over. You let the big boys handle all the baddies again. Girl.”
But Sam didn’t move.
Gene wasn’t worried, per say, more like concerned. Concerned he’d have to handle all the paperwork if his DI decided to not wake up from those very minor injuries. With some care, Gene rolled Sam onto his back. Ottinger’s ham fist had certainly done some damage if the large purple welt forming on Tyler’s cheek was any indication, but the real reason Sam had decided to play Sleeping Beauty in the middle of a brawl was because of the way his soft head had hit the corner of one of the wooden crates stacked haphazardly throughout the warehouse. Now, by Sam’s side, Gene could see the blood leaking from the back of his head.
And Tyler still wasn’t waking.
“Well,” Gene sighed, hoisting the lightweight over his shoulder, “Suppose I should get you to hospital.”
Two hours and three cigarettes later...
“His cheekbone is broken, and he has sustained a skull fracture. However, there is no indication of any significant brain swelling and, despite the concussion, Mr. Tyler is quite lucid and able to answer our questions correctly. Except regarding the date. We will be keeping him tonight for observation, but I see no reason he can’t return home tomorrow. Gentlemen.” The doctor nodded and left Sam’s bedside before Gene could ask anymore questions.
“So I can go home tonight?”
“Tomorrow.”
“But...”
“Tomorrow, Tyler. And don’t talk so much. Doc said you’re not supposed to move your jaw till that cheek his healed.”
“I don’t remember him saying that.”
“You don’t remember the bloody date.”
“I got the date right...Just had the years mixed up.”
Gene was about to retort but Sam was already dozing off. With a paper in one hand and his flask in the other, Gene settled into the nearest chair, ready for a long night.
2)
“He going to live or what?”
“Most certainly.”
Six hours earlier...
“So, what do you think, Boss?”
“It’s, uhm, well...”
DI Tyler was carefully examining Chris’s new - potential new - flat.
“I would’ve asked Ray to come round, but I thought, since you said you worked in a DIY shop and all...”
DI Tyler examined a spot of mold in the corner.
“It’s an attic, Chris.”
“Well, I know it’s not grand, but...”
“No. Literally. It’s an attic. There’s open space between the ceiling and floorboards. That’s obviously a family of pigeons there above the door. It’s not even insulated. You’ll be freezing in the winter and boiling in the summer.”
“So...you don’t think I should take it?”
“No, Chris. You should definitely not take it.”
“Oh.” Chris knew he looked dejected, but couldn’t help it. “I really wanted me own place, like. Move out of my parents. Not much I can afford, though.”
“Don’t worry,” DI Tyler clapped Chris on the back. “I’m sure you can find something better.”
Chris nodded and headed for the door.
“You know,” Tyler continued, following. “I’m not even sure if these boards are stable--”
And DI Tyler fell through the floor, landing on the dining room table in the room below. Chris peered into the newly made hole in the no longer potential flat.
“Boss?”
Six hours, eight fags, and one thorough bollocking of DC Skelton later...
“His right femur is broken and two of his ribs are cracked. He’ll need to remain in traction for a few weeks, but I see no reason he shouldn’t make a complete recovery.”
“Bed rest?” Gene confirmed. The doctor nodded. “Thank god for that.”
The doctor left to make his rounds and Gene plopped into the chair beside Sam.
“So, how’re you feeling after that cheerful news?” He asked.
Sam, eyes closed, leg suspended in midair, smiled.
“They gave me pain meds.”
“Christ.”
“Chris? You didn’t yell at him, did you?”
“Oh, course not.”
“Just wants a place to stay. A place of his own.”
“Don’t worry. Got that all sorted.”
“Really?”
“He’ll be staying at yours the next few weeks. Punishment enough, wouldn’t you say?”
3)
“So, he going to pull through?”
“Barring any further complications.”
Three days earlier...
“What’s wrong with you?” Ray asked.
“Nothing,” Tyler replied, releasing his right side.
“Look a bit peaky, even for you.”
“I said I’m fine. Now are you ready to interview this witness or not?”
“Oh, ready as ever, Boss,” Ray mock saluted. Tyler rolled his eyes and knocked on the old biddy’s door.
The interview went exactly how Ray knew it would. Did she see anything? Course not. Didn’t have her glasses on. Did she hear anything? Course not. Ears aren’t quite what they used to be, you see. Then why contact the police? Well, it happened right down the street, didn’t it? She wanted to be of help. The neighborly thing to do, innit?
At least the old dear made a grand cuppa, and those homemade biscuits. Damn. Even Ray’s mam couldn’t bake them like that anymore. Ray devoured as much as he could. Tyler, of course, sat there grim-faced, taking notes on everything - probably even the color of the curtains - refusing to eat anything and occasionally grasping his right side.
Eventually it was time to leave, much to Ray’s displeasure. They politely said their goodbyes - of course she could ring again if she thought of something else - and out the door they went. It wasn’t until they were around the corner, headed for Ray’s old Anglia, when Tyler collapsed to his knees.
“Whoa there. Tyler? Boss?”
“I’m-I’m fine,” he panted, lying. He was sweating buckets and looked about to pass out. He was curling to his right, nursing that side.
“Course you are. But, if I don’t drive you somewhere to get checked out, Guv’ll have me knackers.”
With a strong arm, Ray lifted Sam to his feet and hauled him the short distance to the car. Just as Ray opened the door, Tyler vomited all over Ray’s shoes.
“Oi! Right. In! We’re going to hospital whether you like it or not, twonk. And you better not.”
Three days, five packs of fags, and one new pair of shoes for Carling later...
“The incision we made to remove his appendix is healing nicely, and he was able to eat solid food today. We’ll be keeping him on antibiotics for the next several days to ensure the infection is clear. But, given time, Mr. Tyler should be just fine.”
Down the hall, the matron called for the doctor. He smiled and left without further comment. Sam was asleep, but Gene sat back down anyway. Could be thirsty when he woke and he wasn’t strong enough to lift the glass on his own.
“Lucky it didn’t burst, Gladys,” Gene sighed, flipping to the sport section of his three day old paper. “Next time you feel like your bloody guts are exploding, let us know ‘fore they actually do. Okay?”
Sam slept. He’d lost a bit of weight through this ordeal, Gene noticed. No doubt he’d have to bring him round so the missus could fatten him up well and good with one of her famous Sunday roasts. Might not cook as much for Gene anymore (some rubbish about a diet), but she couldn’t resist an officer in distress. She’d heap loads of beef and mash and Yorkshire pudding onto a plate for Sam, and Gene would be there to benefit as well.
“Gotta heal up and get out of this place, Tyler. We’ve a hearty Sunday meal to eat.”
4)
“How bad is he?”
“Well to be honest, we haven’t seen much worse, but...”
12 hours earlier...
“Well, maybe it won’t win any awards, but I still enjoyed it.”
“At least one of us did.”
“Sam,” Annie laughed and slapped him on the arm. “You’re the one that wanted to see it.”
“I know. I suppose I enjoyed it more the first time.”
“It only came out yesterday.”
“So,” Sam took her arm and escorted her out of the cinema. He was ready to change the subject, the way he always did when things stopped making sense. “Since I chose the film, it’s only fair you choose the restaurant.”
“Dinner and a flick? We’re going all out tonight, aren’t we?” She smiled.
“After that case I think we deserve it. Sorry. I shouldn’t bring up work.”
“It’s fine. Now, there’s a new Indian restaurant, just opened. Supposed to be loads better than the Taj Mahal. How does that sound?”
“Anything sounds better than the Taj Mahal,” he smiled. “Lead the way.”
It had been a pleasant walk along the canal. They chatted amicably and avoided conversations of work and any topics Annie knew would cause Sam to act...funny. Perhaps they shouldn’t have been walking in that part of the city at night, but they were both police officers. What could happen, Annie had thought.
Neither she nor Sam had seen the man lurking around the corner. It was going to be fine, though. They were police officers and he was skittish. A junkie, Annie thought, looking for money. Yes, he’d had a knife, but Sam had been talking to him, talking him down. She didn’t interfere - not because she needed a man to protect her - but because whatever Sam was saying was working. The man was backing off. She didn’t want to confuse the man by interjecting.
She should have, however, she should have told Sam to let him run off. She should have pulled Sam back when he reached for the knife. She hadn’t. She’d froze. And Sam had reached for the knife just as a distant cry echoed down the canal path. A cat? A baby? Laughter? Whatever it had been, it startled the would-be mugger and the knife had slipped into Sam’s stomach. She might have screamed. She couldn’t remember. The junkie had ripped out the knife, stared at it covered in blood, then dropped it and ran off.
“Sam!”
Annie helped him sit on the pavement, resting his back against the tow path wall. His hands were covering the wound and he kept telling her he’d be fine. It wasn’t bad. Not bad at all and he’d be fine. But she saw him growing paler. Heard him slurring his words.
She had done one thing right that evening. She had a police radio in her purse. She’d forgotten to return it to Phyllis after leaving the station that day. She pulled it out and immediately called for help, an ambulance, officer down, please help. Then she sat with Sam and waited and talked until he passed out.
12 hours, 20 fags, 1 flask, and seven cups of coffee for Cartwright later...
“There was a massive amount of blood loss, and the wound was deep. However, surgery went well and as long as we keep Mr. Tyler under observation for any subsequent bleeding or infections, I believe he should make a full recovery.”
“Can I see him?”
“He’s just out of the operating theatre and in a delicate state right now, but provided you remain quiet and stay no longer than five to ten minutes, I see no problem with a visitation.”
The doctor escorted Gene to Sam’s room, a private room in a fairly quiet ward. The only sounds were Sam’s heart monitor and respirator.
“I believe we should be able to remove the tracheotomy tube tomorrow,” the doctor said, noting Gene’s gaze. “Well, ten minutes, Mr. Hunt,” he added and left.
Gene stood by the doorway and stared. Sam was as white as his sheets, a sharp contrast to the bright red bottle of blood dripping into him. The machine was breathing for him and Sam had no energy to fight it. When he recovered his nerve, Gene approached. There were no chairs in this room. People weren’t meant to stay. This room was for patients who needed absolute quiet to survive.
“Christ, Sammy. This is why I don’t date. Bloody dangerous business, if you ask me.”
The heart monitor beeped its consent.
“I’ll let Cartwright know you’re alright. Sent her home for a shower and a cuppa.”
Gene didn’t tell Sam he’d sent Annie home because she’d been covered in his blood. Not that he could hear, but well, one never knew.
“Rest, Sam. I’ll come and see you in the morning.”
Gene nodded, instinctively waiting for a response which he belatedly realized he wasn’t going to get.
“Right,” he said to himself, before giving Tyler’s hand a quick squeeze and leaving the room. Doc said he’d be fine with quiet and rest. Gene wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize that.
5)
“Is he going to be alright or what?”
“Yes, but...exactly how much did he have to drink?”
8 hours earlier...
Gene had known Tyler was having a bad day. He was twitchier than normal. He didn’t want to talk to anyone and those who did approach him were spoken to in anger. Gene had learned - the hard way - it was best to avoid Sam on days like these. Whatever it was about, Sam would refuse to fight it out with his fists, let alone talk about it. When Tyler didn’t want to chat, Gene knew it was bad.
Whatever it was, it would work itself out of Sam’s system in a day or so, and he would return to his normal, irritable self, acting as if nothing had happened.
It was only because Nelson had expressed concern that Gene decided to check on him that evening. Sam had left work before the rest of them (a sure sign, Gene should have realized, that something was off), showed up at the Arms, and purchased two bottles of Nelson’s cheapest whiskey. Nelson had sold it to him, he said, under the impression that he was going to share it with the rest of CID.
But Sam had left with his bottles before anyone else from CID had arrived. And now Nelson was concerned. And so was Gene.
He knocked on Sam’s door twice with no response. Not even a piss off. So, Gene shouldered his way through the door. One step in and his foot kicked an empty bottle. A wine bottle. Several more steps and he stubbed his toe on a whiskey bottle. Another step and he saw the telly - smashed, a fist-sized hole through the screen.
Rounding the end of the cot, he saw a bloodied hand clutching a second empty whiskey bottle. Another step, and there was the rest of Sam, passed out in his own sick.
“Shit.”
He heaved his DI off the floor and placed him onto the cot. He tried to sit Sam up, but the lad was completely gone and nowhere near being able to support his own weight.
“Sam?’
A few slaps to the clean side of his face did nothing. Gene propped him against the shelf above the bed, retrieved a damp flannel and wiped Sam’s face clean.
“Sam!”
There was no response. Sam’s head merely fell forward from its own weight. His breathing was shallow. Gene was all for drinks. He was all for getting bladdered, but this was beyond that. He’d seen this happen to one of Stu’s mates. Drank himself into a stupor and then some. Stu had left him in their room to sleep it off. But he hadn’t slept it off. He’d only laid there and died. It was Gene who’d found him the next morning.
Gene wouldn’t be doing that again. He lifted Sam over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold and carried him out to the Cortina.
8 hours, 1 pack of fags, and three bitter cups of coffee later...
“We had to pump his stomach, else he would’ve succumbed to alcohol poisoning. His hand required multiple stitches but there were no broken bones. I trust, DCI Hunt, that you’ll keep your police parties a bit more...tame from now on.”
“On my honor,” Gene nodded.
The doctor returned the gesture and left Gene to find Sam on his own. He was in a large ward, in a tiny bed, with a thin curtain separating him from the rest. Gene stood at the foot of his bed until he woke up.
“Mouth’s dry...” Sam mumbled, and reached above his head, presumably for a glass on a shelf that wasn’t there. It was then he noticed the IV in his hand. Then he noticed he wasn’t in his flat. Then he noticed Gene.
Gene went to the bedside where a glass of water waited.
“Guv? What happened?”
“What do you remember?”
Sam paused, started, then stopped. Gene saw the shame spreading across his face.
“Here,” Gene held the straw to his lips. Sam took a tentative sip. “Better?”
Sam didn’t answer. Gene settled into the chair beside him.
“Want to talk about it?”
Sam didn’t answer.
“I can get Cartwright.”
“I don’t want Annie to know. Or anyone. I don’t...I just want to forget it happened.”
“Really think you can do that?”
Sam didn’t answer.
“If you want...I’ll listen. For once, I’ll listen to whatever you want to say, so long as you promise you’ll never do that again.”
“Drink?”
“God no. Punch the telly. Suppose you think you’ll watch Match of the Day at my house now that yours is out of commission.”
That got a smile, though a brief one.
“Alright. Long as you promise no one ever finds out how pathetic I am.”
Gene put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“You’re not pathetic, Sam. But all this stays between you and me. You have my word.”
Gene listened until Sam ran out of words and drifted off to sleep. Then he stayed there, just to be sure he’d wake up again.
And one time he didn’t....
“But, he’s going to be alright.”
“No, Mr. Hunt. He’s not.”
14 hours earlier...
“All I want is to see a scene properly secured before we arrive. Just once. Is it so much to ask for?”
“Yes. Don’t know how it works in Hyde, Sammy-boy, but here in the real world, that’s not plod’s responsibility.”
It was the same old conversation leading to the same old outcome. Tyler wasn’t very upset this time. Just wanted to state for the five hundredth time that he was always in the right and Hunt was always in the wrong. Needed his opinion heard every once in awhile.
They had already left the offending crime scene, Gene driving Sam and his precious bags of evidence back to the station. It was the most pleasant day Manchester had seen in weeks. Driving with the window down, even Tyler’s prattling couldn’t put Gene in a bad mood.
Gene wasn’t sure when the prattling stopped. He couldn’t remember when the engine had switched off. He wasn’t sure how any of it had happened, really. One minute they were headed down the road, next the car was upside down, tires spinning in the air. Gene’s arms were hanging above his head, and a wet trickle was dripping up his face.
“Gene. Gene!”
As his vision cleared, he realized he’d been unconscious.
“ ‘M here,” he muttered.
“Shit,” Sam sighed. “Thought you were...Couldn’t wake you.”
Clarity returned and Gene tried to unpin himself from the car. He hadn’t been wearing his seat belt, of course, but something was holding him in place.
“Radio works,” Sam said. “Ambulance should be here soon. And back up.”
“Lucky day, eh?”
“Yeah. My sort of luck.”
Gene strained his head to eye his DI.
“You alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Think so. Just a bit bruised. You?”
“I’ve had worse.”
In the distance they heard the sirens approaching.
“So,” Sam sighed. “What was I saying about crime scenes?”
To Gene’s relief, it didn’t take long for the emergency crews to extract them from the car. Sam needed help getting into the ambulance, but so did Gene. Neither thought much of it. In the bus they tried to talk about what happened, but neither could work it out. Upon reaching A&E, they were separated.
Gene had a few tests, told he had a concussion, but nothing serious and would be kept overnight for observation. Wheeled into a crowded ward, he waited for news of Sam.
14 hours, 3 glasses of stale water, and one fitful nap later...
“He was fine! Talking and all. Didn’t even see any cuts or bruises on him.”
“Mr. Tyler’s injuries are internal. Some we could locate, and fix, but others...We can’t find the source of the bleeding. We can’t stop it. I’m sorry, Mr. Hunt. There’s nothing we can do except make him comfortable.”
Gene demanded to see him. He needed only to ask once. They wheeled him to Sam’s private room, then left them alone.
“Hiya,” Sam whispered.
“Hi yourself.”
“You alright?”
“I’ll survi...yeah. I’m alright.”
“So...they told you?” Sam asked. Gene noticed his eyes were rimmed red, but he seemed strong now.
“They did.”
“Right.” Sam fell silent.
“Sam, there anyone, back in Hyde or...”
“No,” he laughed. “No, there’s not. They’ve...I already...there was a priest. He took down my will. Not much of one. Don’t have much. Here. Don’t even know if it matters. A will. Last piece of paperwork I’ll ever sign.”
“Never thought I’d seen the day,” Gene joked, but it was hollow. They both went quiet.
“Gene...will you...”
“Anything.”
“Will you stay?”
“Course.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, well, you can pay me back later.”
Gene sat with Sam the rest of the night and into the morning, until they took his body away. And Sam did pay him back, Gene discovered later. He’d left Gene everything he had.
Author: dak
Word Count: 3826
Rating: blue cortina
Warnings: character death, angst, blood
Summary: Does what it says on the tin.
A/N: Character death warning only applies to the last ficlet. I've left space between the other five ficlets and that one, so if that squicks you, you can read the rest without fear. For jpgr who gave me the prompt.
1)
“Is he going to make it?”
“Yes.”
Two hours earlier...
Sam went down as soon as Ottinger’s fist collided with his cheek. Granted, the fist was the size of a Christmas ham and Tyler’s face was of a more delicate nature, (so the WPC’s gossiped), but Gene had expected the ponce to put up a bit more of a fight. As he finished off his own man, Ol’ Bobby Cray (bit of a misnomer, Gene thought, as Cray was younger than the Gene Genie, himself), he waited for Tyler to spring to his feet and settle the score with Ottinger, using that whole kung fu nonsense he was so fond of.
He didn’t.
As not-that-ol’ Bobby Cray was flung into a pile of crates by the very spry Gene Genie, Ottinger was aiming his army boot over Sam’s immobile head. Unable to cross the room in time to pummel the lout with his bare fists, Gene pulled his trusty revolver from his inner pocket, aimed Gary Cooper style, and fired one shot into the raised bent knee that, seconds before, had been so keen on dropping the boot onto his DI’s already cracked noggin.
Ottinger howled and clutched his knee as he fell. Gene holstered his gun and walked calmly to his deputy’s side, leaning over and gently shaking his shoulder.
“C’mon, Tyler. Fight’s over. You let the big boys handle all the baddies again. Girl.”
But Sam didn’t move.
Gene wasn’t worried, per say, more like concerned. Concerned he’d have to handle all the paperwork if his DI decided to not wake up from those very minor injuries. With some care, Gene rolled Sam onto his back. Ottinger’s ham fist had certainly done some damage if the large purple welt forming on Tyler’s cheek was any indication, but the real reason Sam had decided to play Sleeping Beauty in the middle of a brawl was because of the way his soft head had hit the corner of one of the wooden crates stacked haphazardly throughout the warehouse. Now, by Sam’s side, Gene could see the blood leaking from the back of his head.
And Tyler still wasn’t waking.
“Well,” Gene sighed, hoisting the lightweight over his shoulder, “Suppose I should get you to hospital.”
Two hours and three cigarettes later...
“His cheekbone is broken, and he has sustained a skull fracture. However, there is no indication of any significant brain swelling and, despite the concussion, Mr. Tyler is quite lucid and able to answer our questions correctly. Except regarding the date. We will be keeping him tonight for observation, but I see no reason he can’t return home tomorrow. Gentlemen.” The doctor nodded and left Sam’s bedside before Gene could ask anymore questions.
“So I can go home tonight?”
“Tomorrow.”
“But...”
“Tomorrow, Tyler. And don’t talk so much. Doc said you’re not supposed to move your jaw till that cheek his healed.”
“I don’t remember him saying that.”
“You don’t remember the bloody date.”
“I got the date right...Just had the years mixed up.”
Gene was about to retort but Sam was already dozing off. With a paper in one hand and his flask in the other, Gene settled into the nearest chair, ready for a long night.
2)
“He going to live or what?”
“Most certainly.”
Six hours earlier...
“So, what do you think, Boss?”
“It’s, uhm, well...”
DI Tyler was carefully examining Chris’s new - potential new - flat.
“I would’ve asked Ray to come round, but I thought, since you said you worked in a DIY shop and all...”
DI Tyler examined a spot of mold in the corner.
“It’s an attic, Chris.”
“Well, I know it’s not grand, but...”
“No. Literally. It’s an attic. There’s open space between the ceiling and floorboards. That’s obviously a family of pigeons there above the door. It’s not even insulated. You’ll be freezing in the winter and boiling in the summer.”
“So...you don’t think I should take it?”
“No, Chris. You should definitely not take it.”
“Oh.” Chris knew he looked dejected, but couldn’t help it. “I really wanted me own place, like. Move out of my parents. Not much I can afford, though.”
“Don’t worry,” DI Tyler clapped Chris on the back. “I’m sure you can find something better.”
Chris nodded and headed for the door.
“You know,” Tyler continued, following. “I’m not even sure if these boards are stable--”
And DI Tyler fell through the floor, landing on the dining room table in the room below. Chris peered into the newly made hole in the no longer potential flat.
“Boss?”
Six hours, eight fags, and one thorough bollocking of DC Skelton later...
“His right femur is broken and two of his ribs are cracked. He’ll need to remain in traction for a few weeks, but I see no reason he shouldn’t make a complete recovery.”
“Bed rest?” Gene confirmed. The doctor nodded. “Thank god for that.”
The doctor left to make his rounds and Gene plopped into the chair beside Sam.
“So, how’re you feeling after that cheerful news?” He asked.
Sam, eyes closed, leg suspended in midair, smiled.
“They gave me pain meds.”
“Christ.”
“Chris? You didn’t yell at him, did you?”
“Oh, course not.”
“Just wants a place to stay. A place of his own.”
“Don’t worry. Got that all sorted.”
“Really?”
“He’ll be staying at yours the next few weeks. Punishment enough, wouldn’t you say?”
3)
“So, he going to pull through?”
“Barring any further complications.”
Three days earlier...
“What’s wrong with you?” Ray asked.
“Nothing,” Tyler replied, releasing his right side.
“Look a bit peaky, even for you.”
“I said I’m fine. Now are you ready to interview this witness or not?”
“Oh, ready as ever, Boss,” Ray mock saluted. Tyler rolled his eyes and knocked on the old biddy’s door.
The interview went exactly how Ray knew it would. Did she see anything? Course not. Didn’t have her glasses on. Did she hear anything? Course not. Ears aren’t quite what they used to be, you see. Then why contact the police? Well, it happened right down the street, didn’t it? She wanted to be of help. The neighborly thing to do, innit?
At least the old dear made a grand cuppa, and those homemade biscuits. Damn. Even Ray’s mam couldn’t bake them like that anymore. Ray devoured as much as he could. Tyler, of course, sat there grim-faced, taking notes on everything - probably even the color of the curtains - refusing to eat anything and occasionally grasping his right side.
Eventually it was time to leave, much to Ray’s displeasure. They politely said their goodbyes - of course she could ring again if she thought of something else - and out the door they went. It wasn’t until they were around the corner, headed for Ray’s old Anglia, when Tyler collapsed to his knees.
“Whoa there. Tyler? Boss?”
“I’m-I’m fine,” he panted, lying. He was sweating buckets and looked about to pass out. He was curling to his right, nursing that side.
“Course you are. But, if I don’t drive you somewhere to get checked out, Guv’ll have me knackers.”
With a strong arm, Ray lifted Sam to his feet and hauled him the short distance to the car. Just as Ray opened the door, Tyler vomited all over Ray’s shoes.
“Oi! Right. In! We’re going to hospital whether you like it or not, twonk. And you better not.”
Three days, five packs of fags, and one new pair of shoes for Carling later...
“The incision we made to remove his appendix is healing nicely, and he was able to eat solid food today. We’ll be keeping him on antibiotics for the next several days to ensure the infection is clear. But, given time, Mr. Tyler should be just fine.”
Down the hall, the matron called for the doctor. He smiled and left without further comment. Sam was asleep, but Gene sat back down anyway. Could be thirsty when he woke and he wasn’t strong enough to lift the glass on his own.
“Lucky it didn’t burst, Gladys,” Gene sighed, flipping to the sport section of his three day old paper. “Next time you feel like your bloody guts are exploding, let us know ‘fore they actually do. Okay?”
Sam slept. He’d lost a bit of weight through this ordeal, Gene noticed. No doubt he’d have to bring him round so the missus could fatten him up well and good with one of her famous Sunday roasts. Might not cook as much for Gene anymore (some rubbish about a diet), but she couldn’t resist an officer in distress. She’d heap loads of beef and mash and Yorkshire pudding onto a plate for Sam, and Gene would be there to benefit as well.
“Gotta heal up and get out of this place, Tyler. We’ve a hearty Sunday meal to eat.”
4)
“How bad is he?”
“Well to be honest, we haven’t seen much worse, but...”
12 hours earlier...
“Well, maybe it won’t win any awards, but I still enjoyed it.”
“At least one of us did.”
“Sam,” Annie laughed and slapped him on the arm. “You’re the one that wanted to see it.”
“I know. I suppose I enjoyed it more the first time.”
“It only came out yesterday.”
“So,” Sam took her arm and escorted her out of the cinema. He was ready to change the subject, the way he always did when things stopped making sense. “Since I chose the film, it’s only fair you choose the restaurant.”
“Dinner and a flick? We’re going all out tonight, aren’t we?” She smiled.
“After that case I think we deserve it. Sorry. I shouldn’t bring up work.”
“It’s fine. Now, there’s a new Indian restaurant, just opened. Supposed to be loads better than the Taj Mahal. How does that sound?”
“Anything sounds better than the Taj Mahal,” he smiled. “Lead the way.”
It had been a pleasant walk along the canal. They chatted amicably and avoided conversations of work and any topics Annie knew would cause Sam to act...funny. Perhaps they shouldn’t have been walking in that part of the city at night, but they were both police officers. What could happen, Annie had thought.
Neither she nor Sam had seen the man lurking around the corner. It was going to be fine, though. They were police officers and he was skittish. A junkie, Annie thought, looking for money. Yes, he’d had a knife, but Sam had been talking to him, talking him down. She didn’t interfere - not because she needed a man to protect her - but because whatever Sam was saying was working. The man was backing off. She didn’t want to confuse the man by interjecting.
She should have, however, she should have told Sam to let him run off. She should have pulled Sam back when he reached for the knife. She hadn’t. She’d froze. And Sam had reached for the knife just as a distant cry echoed down the canal path. A cat? A baby? Laughter? Whatever it had been, it startled the would-be mugger and the knife had slipped into Sam’s stomach. She might have screamed. She couldn’t remember. The junkie had ripped out the knife, stared at it covered in blood, then dropped it and ran off.
“Sam!”
Annie helped him sit on the pavement, resting his back against the tow path wall. His hands were covering the wound and he kept telling her he’d be fine. It wasn’t bad. Not bad at all and he’d be fine. But she saw him growing paler. Heard him slurring his words.
She had done one thing right that evening. She had a police radio in her purse. She’d forgotten to return it to Phyllis after leaving the station that day. She pulled it out and immediately called for help, an ambulance, officer down, please help. Then she sat with Sam and waited and talked until he passed out.
12 hours, 20 fags, 1 flask, and seven cups of coffee for Cartwright later...
“There was a massive amount of blood loss, and the wound was deep. However, surgery went well and as long as we keep Mr. Tyler under observation for any subsequent bleeding or infections, I believe he should make a full recovery.”
“Can I see him?”
“He’s just out of the operating theatre and in a delicate state right now, but provided you remain quiet and stay no longer than five to ten minutes, I see no problem with a visitation.”
The doctor escorted Gene to Sam’s room, a private room in a fairly quiet ward. The only sounds were Sam’s heart monitor and respirator.
“I believe we should be able to remove the tracheotomy tube tomorrow,” the doctor said, noting Gene’s gaze. “Well, ten minutes, Mr. Hunt,” he added and left.
Gene stood by the doorway and stared. Sam was as white as his sheets, a sharp contrast to the bright red bottle of blood dripping into him. The machine was breathing for him and Sam had no energy to fight it. When he recovered his nerve, Gene approached. There were no chairs in this room. People weren’t meant to stay. This room was for patients who needed absolute quiet to survive.
“Christ, Sammy. This is why I don’t date. Bloody dangerous business, if you ask me.”
The heart monitor beeped its consent.
“I’ll let Cartwright know you’re alright. Sent her home for a shower and a cuppa.”
Gene didn’t tell Sam he’d sent Annie home because she’d been covered in his blood. Not that he could hear, but well, one never knew.
“Rest, Sam. I’ll come and see you in the morning.”
Gene nodded, instinctively waiting for a response which he belatedly realized he wasn’t going to get.
“Right,” he said to himself, before giving Tyler’s hand a quick squeeze and leaving the room. Doc said he’d be fine with quiet and rest. Gene wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize that.
5)
“Is he going to be alright or what?”
“Yes, but...exactly how much did he have to drink?”
8 hours earlier...
Gene had known Tyler was having a bad day. He was twitchier than normal. He didn’t want to talk to anyone and those who did approach him were spoken to in anger. Gene had learned - the hard way - it was best to avoid Sam on days like these. Whatever it was about, Sam would refuse to fight it out with his fists, let alone talk about it. When Tyler didn’t want to chat, Gene knew it was bad.
Whatever it was, it would work itself out of Sam’s system in a day or so, and he would return to his normal, irritable self, acting as if nothing had happened.
It was only because Nelson had expressed concern that Gene decided to check on him that evening. Sam had left work before the rest of them (a sure sign, Gene should have realized, that something was off), showed up at the Arms, and purchased two bottles of Nelson’s cheapest whiskey. Nelson had sold it to him, he said, under the impression that he was going to share it with the rest of CID.
But Sam had left with his bottles before anyone else from CID had arrived. And now Nelson was concerned. And so was Gene.
He knocked on Sam’s door twice with no response. Not even a piss off. So, Gene shouldered his way through the door. One step in and his foot kicked an empty bottle. A wine bottle. Several more steps and he stubbed his toe on a whiskey bottle. Another step and he saw the telly - smashed, a fist-sized hole through the screen.
Rounding the end of the cot, he saw a bloodied hand clutching a second empty whiskey bottle. Another step, and there was the rest of Sam, passed out in his own sick.
“Shit.”
He heaved his DI off the floor and placed him onto the cot. He tried to sit Sam up, but the lad was completely gone and nowhere near being able to support his own weight.
“Sam?’
A few slaps to the clean side of his face did nothing. Gene propped him against the shelf above the bed, retrieved a damp flannel and wiped Sam’s face clean.
“Sam!”
There was no response. Sam’s head merely fell forward from its own weight. His breathing was shallow. Gene was all for drinks. He was all for getting bladdered, but this was beyond that. He’d seen this happen to one of Stu’s mates. Drank himself into a stupor and then some. Stu had left him in their room to sleep it off. But he hadn’t slept it off. He’d only laid there and died. It was Gene who’d found him the next morning.
Gene wouldn’t be doing that again. He lifted Sam over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold and carried him out to the Cortina.
8 hours, 1 pack of fags, and three bitter cups of coffee later...
“We had to pump his stomach, else he would’ve succumbed to alcohol poisoning. His hand required multiple stitches but there were no broken bones. I trust, DCI Hunt, that you’ll keep your police parties a bit more...tame from now on.”
“On my honor,” Gene nodded.
The doctor returned the gesture and left Gene to find Sam on his own. He was in a large ward, in a tiny bed, with a thin curtain separating him from the rest. Gene stood at the foot of his bed until he woke up.
“Mouth’s dry...” Sam mumbled, and reached above his head, presumably for a glass on a shelf that wasn’t there. It was then he noticed the IV in his hand. Then he noticed he wasn’t in his flat. Then he noticed Gene.
Gene went to the bedside where a glass of water waited.
“Guv? What happened?”
“What do you remember?”
Sam paused, started, then stopped. Gene saw the shame spreading across his face.
“Here,” Gene held the straw to his lips. Sam took a tentative sip. “Better?”
Sam didn’t answer. Gene settled into the chair beside him.
“Want to talk about it?”
Sam didn’t answer.
“I can get Cartwright.”
“I don’t want Annie to know. Or anyone. I don’t...I just want to forget it happened.”
“Really think you can do that?”
Sam didn’t answer.
“If you want...I’ll listen. For once, I’ll listen to whatever you want to say, so long as you promise you’ll never do that again.”
“Drink?”
“God no. Punch the telly. Suppose you think you’ll watch Match of the Day at my house now that yours is out of commission.”
That got a smile, though a brief one.
“Alright. Long as you promise no one ever finds out how pathetic I am.”
Gene put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“You’re not pathetic, Sam. But all this stays between you and me. You have my word.”
Gene listened until Sam ran out of words and drifted off to sleep. Then he stayed there, just to be sure he’d wake up again.
And one time he didn’t....
“But, he’s going to be alright.”
“No, Mr. Hunt. He’s not.”
14 hours earlier...
“All I want is to see a scene properly secured before we arrive. Just once. Is it so much to ask for?”
“Yes. Don’t know how it works in Hyde, Sammy-boy, but here in the real world, that’s not plod’s responsibility.”
It was the same old conversation leading to the same old outcome. Tyler wasn’t very upset this time. Just wanted to state for the five hundredth time that he was always in the right and Hunt was always in the wrong. Needed his opinion heard every once in awhile.
They had already left the offending crime scene, Gene driving Sam and his precious bags of evidence back to the station. It was the most pleasant day Manchester had seen in weeks. Driving with the window down, even Tyler’s prattling couldn’t put Gene in a bad mood.
Gene wasn’t sure when the prattling stopped. He couldn’t remember when the engine had switched off. He wasn’t sure how any of it had happened, really. One minute they were headed down the road, next the car was upside down, tires spinning in the air. Gene’s arms were hanging above his head, and a wet trickle was dripping up his face.
“Gene. Gene!”
As his vision cleared, he realized he’d been unconscious.
“ ‘M here,” he muttered.
“Shit,” Sam sighed. “Thought you were...Couldn’t wake you.”
Clarity returned and Gene tried to unpin himself from the car. He hadn’t been wearing his seat belt, of course, but something was holding him in place.
“Radio works,” Sam said. “Ambulance should be here soon. And back up.”
“Lucky day, eh?”
“Yeah. My sort of luck.”
Gene strained his head to eye his DI.
“You alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Think so. Just a bit bruised. You?”
“I’ve had worse.”
In the distance they heard the sirens approaching.
“So,” Sam sighed. “What was I saying about crime scenes?”
To Gene’s relief, it didn’t take long for the emergency crews to extract them from the car. Sam needed help getting into the ambulance, but so did Gene. Neither thought much of it. In the bus they tried to talk about what happened, but neither could work it out. Upon reaching A&E, they were separated.
Gene had a few tests, told he had a concussion, but nothing serious and would be kept overnight for observation. Wheeled into a crowded ward, he waited for news of Sam.
14 hours, 3 glasses of stale water, and one fitful nap later...
“He was fine! Talking and all. Didn’t even see any cuts or bruises on him.”
“Mr. Tyler’s injuries are internal. Some we could locate, and fix, but others...We can’t find the source of the bleeding. We can’t stop it. I’m sorry, Mr. Hunt. There’s nothing we can do except make him comfortable.”
Gene demanded to see him. He needed only to ask once. They wheeled him to Sam’s private room, then left them alone.
“Hiya,” Sam whispered.
“Hi yourself.”
“You alright?”
“I’ll survi...yeah. I’m alright.”
“So...they told you?” Sam asked. Gene noticed his eyes were rimmed red, but he seemed strong now.
“They did.”
“Right.” Sam fell silent.
“Sam, there anyone, back in Hyde or...”
“No,” he laughed. “No, there’s not. They’ve...I already...there was a priest. He took down my will. Not much of one. Don’t have much. Here. Don’t even know if it matters. A will. Last piece of paperwork I’ll ever sign.”
“Never thought I’d seen the day,” Gene joked, but it was hollow. They both went quiet.
“Gene...will you...”
“Anything.”
“Will you stay?”
“Course.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, well, you can pay me back later.”
Gene sat with Sam the rest of the night and into the morning, until they took his body away. And Sam did pay him back, Gene discovered later. He’d left Gene everything he had.